The  Borzoi  Plays  I 


WAR 


A  play  in  four  acts  translated  by 
Thomas  Seltzer  from  the  Russian  of  \ 


Michael 
Artzibashef 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 


Kenneth.  Macgowan 


War 


THE  BORZOI  PLAYS 

I     WAR 

By  Michael  Artzibashef 
II    MOLOCH 

By  Beulah  Marie  Dix 

III  MORAL 

By  Ludwig  Thoma 

IV  THE  INSPECTOR-GENERAL 
By  Nicolay  Gogol 


The  Borzoi  Plays  I 


WAR 


A  play  in  four  acts  translated  by 
Thomas  Seltzer  from  the  Russian  of 


Michael 
Artzibashef 


New  York  •  Alfred  A  Knopf -1916 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 

NOTE 

This  play  was  published  in  The  Drama,  Chicago,  February,  1916.  I 
am  grateful  to  Mr.  Theodore  B.  Hinckley,  its  editor,  for  his  kind  per- 
mission to  reprint  it. 

The  proper  transliteration  of  the  author's  name  is  Artzybashev,  not 
Artzibashef.  But  as  the  latter  spelling  has  been  made  familiar  by  the 
English  translator  of  his  novels,  it  is  used  here  to  prevent  possible  eon- 
fusion. 

T.  S. 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


College 
Library. 


MICHAEL  ARTZIBASHEF 

OF  the  three  living  Russian  authors  who  have  achieved 
world  fame,  Gorky,  Andreyev  and  Artzibashef,  Gorky  is 
better  known  than  read  in  this  country,  Andreyev  is  both 
known  and  read,  though  by  more  limited  numbers,  while 
Artzibashef  is  read  more  and  known  less.  To  enjoy 
Gorky  and  Andreyev  one  must,  it  seems,  be  a  devotee  of 
literature,  and  a  devotee  of  literature  is  always  interested 
in  the  personalities  of  its  creators.  But  one  can  enjoy 
Artzibashef's  writings  and  concern  oneself  little  about 
Artzibashef  the  man.  Like  the  English  servant  girl 
who  asked  the  librarian  for  a  copy  of  Pamela  to  read  it 
for  the  twentieth  time  and  could  not  name  Richardson, 
its  author,  unconscious  apparently  that  it  had  an  author, 
so  many  an  American  will  devour  a  novel  like  Sanine 
without  bothering  to  pronounce  the  name  of  its  writer. 

Richardson  and  Artzibashef  —  a  strange  collocation ! 
It  would  seem  on  the  face  of  it  that  they  are  farther 
removed  from  each  other  in  the  nature  and  quality  of 
their  works  than  they  are  even  in  time.  And  yet  there 
is  a  fundamental  kinship  between  the  two.  The  book  on 
which  Richardson's  fame  rests  has  made  its  wide  appeal 
by  the  predominance  of  that  element  in  it  which  is  also 
the  predominant  note  in  Sanine  —  love,  sex.  This  ele- 
ment in  Sanine  it  is  that  has  given  it  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  readers  in  Russia,  Germany,  and  France 
and  has  spread  its  fame  to  England  and  America,  where 
temporarily  surrendering  our  second  nature,  puritanism, 
to  our  primal  instincts,  we  too  are  beginning  to  read  it 
by  the  thousands. 

Nevertheless,  in  the  treatment  of  their  basic  material, 
v 


572313 


vi  War 

the  natural  instincts  of  man,  Richardson  and  Artzibashef 
are,  as  may  well  be  expected,  poles  apart.  Strange  as 
it  may  seem,  the  eighteenth  century  Englishman,  for  all 
his  artistic  crudity  and  insular  narrowness,  sees  life 
from  a  broader,  more  comprehensively  human  viewpoint 
than  the  consummate  Russian  artist,  the  highest  expres- 
sion of  extreme  modernity.  Let  this  much  be  said  in 
despite  of  all  the  sneers  and  contemptuous  shruggings 
of  the  shoulders  of  our  individualist  anarchs:  Richard- 
son takes  a  less  one-sided  view  of  life  than  Artzibashef. 
He  finds  men  living  not  only  by  their  instincts  but  by 
their  conventions  as  well.  And  he  does  not  inquire 
whether  these  conventions  were  superimposed  by  tra- 
dition, prejudice,  or  superannuated  reason,  which  is  now 
the  very  opposite  of  reason.  His  task  as  an  artist  is 
merely  to  take  account  of  them.  To  ignore  them  is  to 
ignore  factors  in  human  life  which  are  as  surely  existent 
as  the  natural  instincts.  Because  the  question  as  to 
whether  these  conventions  are  merely  secondary  forces 
in  human  life  didn't  even  present  itself  to  him,  he  was 
able  to  give  a  more  complete  picture  of  life  as  it  actually 
was  in  his  time.  He  was  not  great  enough  artist  to 
remain  impartial.  Virtue  must  be  rewarded,  and  to  that 
end  the  natural  instincts,  though  not  ignored,  must  be 
fought  and  brought  to  terms. 

Yet  the  animal  part  of  man  fares  far  better  in  Pamela 
than  virtue  does  in  Sanine.  Even  granting  the  su- 
premacy of  the  former,  the  English  novelist  gives  his 
enemy,  the  animal  impulses,  a  fairer  chance,  relatively 
to  the  actual  part  they  play  in  human  conduct,  than 
Artzibashef  does  to  his  pet  aversion,  moral  restraint. 
From  first  to  last  in  Sanine,  in  the  short  story,  The  Wife, 
and  in  numerous  other  works,  morality,  and  chiefly  sex 
morality,  is  made  to  seem  such  a  small,  feeble,  pitiful 
thing,  that  apart  from  all  other  considerations,  just  in 
the  interest  of  unprejudiced  truth,  it  must  be  said:  "  It 


War  vii 

is  not  so.  The  facts  do  not  warrant  it.  Sanine's  pres- 
entation of  the  case  is  at  least  as  much  of  an  under- 
valuation of  the  strength  of  the  ethical  factors,  as  the 
Puritan's  is  an  exaggeration  of  them."  We  turn  to 
page  49  of  the  Russian  edition  and  find  Sanine  saying: 

"  I  have  always  wondered  why  people  are  so  opposed 
to  drink.  In  my  opinion  it  is  only  a  drunken  man  who 
lives  the  way  a  man  should  live." 

"  Or  an  animal,"  Novikov  remarked. 

"All  right.  What  of  it?"  Sanine  retorted.  "The 
fact  remains  that  a  drunken  man  does  nothing  but  what 
he  wants  to  do.  If  he  wants  to  drink,  he  drinks.  And 
he  is  not  ashamed  of  being  jolly  and  making  merry." 

"  Sometimes  he  fights,  too,"  Raznichev  observed. 

"  Yes,  that's  sometimes  the  case." 

"You  don't  fight  when  you  are  drunk?  "  asked  Novi- 
kov. 

"  No.  I  am  more  quarrelsome  when  I  am  sober. 
When  I  am  drunk,  I  am  the  kindest  of  men  because  I 
forget  such  a  lot  of  meanness." 

"  But  everybody  else  is  not  like  you  in  that  respect." 

"  I  am  sorry.  But  what  do  I  care  for  everybody  else? 
Everybody  else  isn't  anything  in  the  world  to  me." 

"  That's  not  the  right  way  to  speak,"  remarked  Novi- 
kov. 

"  Why  not,  if  it's  the  truth?  " 

"  A  nice  truth,"  said  Lilya,  tossing  her  head. 

"  The  best  I  know  of,"  said  Ivanov  for  Sanine. 

A  very  interesting  discussion  pro  and  con  of  the  liquor 
question,  and  in  perfect  character,  too.  Artzibashef  is 
too  fine  an  artist  to  strike  a  false  note.  But  when  we 
are  left  to  infer  that  Sanine  has  spoken  the  last  word 
on  this,  as  on  all  other  subjects  upon  which  he  pro- 
nounces his  demolishing  dicta,  then  we  must  enter  our 
demurrer. 

Then    what    is    Artibashef's    strength?     It    is    this: 


viii  War 

within  the  limits  of  that  part  of  the  world  in  which  his 
characters  move,  he  is  powerfully,  fearfully,  mercilessly, 
often  irritatingly  true  to  life.  With  a  touch  as  sure  as 
Tolstoy's  and  with  his  simplicity,  too,  he  conjures  before 
us  a  picture,  a  situation,  a  character,  a  mood  to  which 
we  must  in  honesty  bow  assent.  And  it  is  all  the  more 
wonderful  because  of  the  simple  mechanism  with  which 
he  produces  his  effects.  There  is  no  straining,  nothing 
in  each  unit  of  composition  which  a  child  could  not  do 
as  well.  Yet  the  net  result  is  a  product  of  rare  harmony 
and  beauty  bringing  that  satisfaction  which  only  a  work 
of  real  art  can  inspire. 

When  Sanine  was  published,  it  immediately  produced 
a  sensation  and  aroused  a  discussion  that  in  volume  and 
intensity  was  unusual  even  in  Russia,  where  literary  dis- 
cussions are  frequent  and  serious.  No  book  since  the 
publication  of  Turgenev's  Fathers  and  Children,  as 
Artzibashef  himself  tells  us,  stirred  up  such  interest. 
It  was  hailed  with  wild  enthusiasm  and  attacked  with 
savage  ferocity.  And  the  author  himself  frankly  admits 
that  "  both  the  eulogies  and  the  condemnations  are 
equally  one-sided."  His  own  story  of  the  fortunes  and 
the  significance  of  the  book  is  interesting  and  illuminat- 
ing. 

"  In  the  year  1903,  I  wrote  Sanine.  This  fact  is  will- 
fully suppressed  by  Russian  critics;  moreover,  they  try 
to  persuade  the  public  that  Sanine  is  an  outcome  of  the 
reaction  of  the  year  1907,  and  that  I  have  followed  the 
fashionable  tendency  of  contemporary  Russian  literature. 
In  reality,  however,  the  novel  had  been  read  by  editors 
of  two  reviews  and  by  many  celebrated  authors  as  early 
as  1903.  Again  I  owe  it  to  the  censorship  and  the 
timidity  of  publishers  that  it  was  not  brought  out  at 
the  time.  It  is  an  interesting  fact  that  the  novel  was 
refused  on  account  of  its  ideas  by  the  editorial  staff  of 
the  same  monthly  review,  Sovremienny  Mir,  which  some 


War  ix 

years  later  begged  me  to  give  it  to  them  for  publication. 
In  this  way  Sanine  made  its  appearance  five  years  too 
late.  This  was  very  much  against  it:  at  the  time  of  its 
appearance  literature  had  been  flooded  by  streams  of 
pornographic  and  even  homosexual  works,  and  my  novel 
was  likely  to  be  judged  with  these. 

"  Sanine  is  neither  a  novel  of  ethics  nor  a  libel  on  the 
younger  generation.  Sanine  is  the  apology  for  individ-» 
ualism ;  the  hero  of  the  novel  is  a  type.  In  its  pure  form 
this  type  is  still  new  and  rare,  but  its  spirit  is  in  every 
frank,  bold  and  strong  representative  of  the  new  Russia. 
A  number  of  imitators  who  have  never  grasped  my  ideas 
hastened  to  turn  the  success  of  Sanine  to  their  own  ad- 
vantage; they  injured  me  greatly  by  inundating  the 
literary  world  with  wantonly  obscene  writings,  thus  de- 
grading in  the  reader's  eyes  what  I  wished  to  express  in 
Sanine. 

"  The  critics  persisted  in  ranking  me  with  the  number 
of  second-rate  imitators  of  Sanine  who  displayed  their 
'  marketable  wares  '  full  of  all  sorts  of  offensiveness. 
Not  until  recently,  when  Sanine  had  crossed  the  fron- 
tiers, and  translations  had  appeared  in  Germany,  France, 
Italy,  Bohemia,  Bulgaria,  Hungary,  Denmark,  and  also, 
in  part,  in  Japan,  were  other  voices  to  be  heard  among 
the  critics.  Russia  always  does  grovel  before  foreign 
opinion." 

The  sensational  success  of  Sanine  has  thrust  Artzi- 
bashef's  other  works  into  the  background  and,  as  usually 
happens,  has  resulted  in  a  one-sided  estimate  of  the 
author.  The  fact,  however,  is  that  Artzibashef  has  by 
no  means  confined  himself  to  the  question  of  sex.  True 
to  the  best  literary  traditions,  he  reflects  the  manifold 
changing  interests  of  Russian  contemporary  society. 
His  first  story,  Pasha  Tumanov,  written  in  1901,  dealt 
with  the  evils  of  the  Russian  grammar  schools,  a  hotbed 
of  suicides.  Some  of  his  best  creations,  which  he  began 


x  War 

in  1905,  are  to  be  found  in  the  stories  of  the  revolution. 
They  are  vivid  pictures  of  Russian  radical  types,  and 
in  the  rendering  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  Revolution  and 
in  the  revelation  of  the  motive  forces  that  impelled  its 
actors,  they  are  unexcelled  even  by  Ropshin,  who  gained 
signal  fame  several  years  later  by  the  publication  of  his 
two  remarkable  books  on  the  same  subj  ect.  Occasionally 
Artzibashef  takes  an  excursion  into  the  lower  depths,  as 
in  the  psychologic  study  of  The  Shoe  Maker,  which  is 
quite  in  the  vein  of  Gorky.  But  all  this  Artzibashef 
considers  as  just  incidental,  foreign  to  his  real  mission, 
which,  he  says,  is  to  preach  the  gospel  of  "  anarchic  in- 
dividualism." 

Of  the  two  plays  he  has  written,  Jealousy,  published 
in  1913,  bears  a  strong  kinship  to  Sanine,  with  the  erotic 
element  accented  to  the  abnormal.  The  outbreak  of  the 
war  turned  Russian  literature  away  from  the  wild  cur- 
rent of  sex,  into  which  it  had  been  caught  up  at  the  end 
of  the  Revolution  and  in  which  it  ran  with  ever  increas- 
ing impetus  for  several  years.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the 
banishment  of  exaggerated  emotion  from  the  field  of 
Russian  literature  will  be  permanent.  It  has  had  ample 
time  to  do  its  best  and  worst,  and  it  has  done  it.  What 
further  function  is  left  to  it?  Russian  life  as  well  as 
Russian  literature  can  only  gain  if  with  the  disappear- 
ance of  the  "  Sanine  Clubs  "  that  sprang  up  like  mush- 
rooms after  the  publication  of  the  book,  has  come  also 
the  culmination  of  the  cheap  literature  in  imitation  of 
Sanine  without  the  genius  of  its  author.* 

*  Since  the  above  was  written  a  new  novel  by  Artzibashef 
has  appeared  bearing  the  Biblical  title  The  Woman  Standing 
in  the  Midst.  It  is  quite  in  the  vein  of  Sanine  and  even  more 
relentless  in  detail.  There  is  this  important  difference,  how- 
ever —  the  heroine  revolts  against  the  men  who  have  brought 
moral  ruin  upon  her  in  the  pursuit  of  their  pleasure,  and  the 
men  themselves  appear  in  anything  but  a  favorable  light.  So 
that  the  whole  creates  the  impression  of  being  a  homily  against 
Saninism. 


War  xi 

The  effect  of  new  conditions  upon  Artzibashef  himself 
has  been  marvelously  purifying.  It  seems  scarcely 
credible  that  the  author  of  Jealousy  could  have  written 
War  only  a  little  over  a  year  later.  With  the  bigness 
of  his  theme  the  author's  art  has  grown  big.  In  its 
classic  simplicity  and  restraint  War  is  worthy  of  Tur- 
genev;  in  its  cruel  exposition  of  the  logic  of  horrible 
facts  it  reaches  the  loftiness  of  the  Greek  tragedy.  In 
the  technique,  to  be  sure,  Artzibashef  is  as  anarchic  as  in 
his  philosophy;  but  it  is  the  anarchy  of  the  very  events 
the  play  depicts,  an  anarchy  that  makes  the  play  equiva- 
lent to  life.  Artzibashef  is  not  bothered,  as  many  a 
smaller  playwright  might  have  been  bothered,  by  the  fact 
that  the  first  act  is  just  a  picture  that  might  easily  have 
been  omitted,  and  thus  have  made  the  action  more  con- 
centrated. What  he  gains  by  the  contrast  between  the 
peaceful  happy  situation  in  the  first  act  and  the  havoc 
in  the  next  three  amply  repays  for  the  looseness  in  con- 
struction. Observe,  too,  the  subtle  use  of  the  two  char- 
acters, the  consumptive  Semyonov  and  the  Prince,  both 
of  them  weaklings  in  the  first  act,  the  one  to  be  pitied 
for  his  physical  disability,  the  other  for  his  moral  in- 
feriority. In  the  next  three  acts  the  tables  are  turned. 
In  the  world  left  after  the  war  has  done  its  work  and 
marked  its  impress  upon  its  victims,  Semyonov  and  the 
Prince  have  become  the  strong  ones. 

Of  course,  the  militarist  may  say  of  this  play  what  I 
have  said  before  of  Sanine.  It  exaggerates  one  side. 
The  other  side  is  not  given  a  hearing.  But  this  is  a 
question  about  which  millions  see  only  one  side,  and  for 
an  artist  to  be  of  those  millions  does  not  condemn  him 
for  narrowness. 

The  following  extracts  from  a  short  autobiographical 
sketch  contain  the  essential  facts  of  Artzibashef 's  career. 
The  passage  I  quoted  on  Sanine  is  also  taken  from  this 
sketch. 


xii  War 

"I  was  born  in  the  year  1878  in  a  small  town  in 
Southern  Russia.  By  name  and  extraction  I  am  Tar- 
tar, but  not  of  pure  descent,  since  there  is  Russian, 
French,  Georgian,  and  Polish  blood  in  my  veins.  There 
is  one  of  my  ancestors  of  whom  I  am  proud,  and  that  is 
the  well-known  Polish  rebel  leader  Kosciusko,  my  great- 
grandfather on  the  maternal  side.  My  father  was  a 
small  landowner,  a  retired  officer;  my  mother  died  of 
consumption  when  I  was  three  years  old,  bequeathing  me 
a  legacy  of  tuberculosis.  I  did  not  become  seriously  ill 
until  1907,  but  even  before  that  the  tuberculosis  never 
left  me  in  peace,  as  it  manifested  itself  in  various  forms 
of  illness. 

"  I  went  to  a  grammar-school  in  the  provinces ;  but  as 
I  had  taken  the  keenest  interest  in  painting  from  my 
childhood,  I  left  it  at  the  age  of  sixteen  and  went  to  a 
school  of  art.  I  was  very  poor;  I  had  to  live  in  dirty 
garrets  without  enough  to  eat,  and  the  worst  of  it  all 
was  that  I  had  not  enough  money  for  my  principal  needs 
—  paints  and  canvas.  So  it  was  not  given  to  me  to  be- 
come an  artist;  to  earn  anything  at  all  I  was  obliged  to 
do  caricatures  and  write  short  essays  and  humorous  tales 
for  all  kinds  of  cheap  papers. 

"  Quite  by  chance,  in  the  year  1901,  I  wrote  my  first 
story,  Pasha  Tumanov.  An  actual  occurrence  and  my 
own  hatred  for  the  superannuated  schools  suggested  the 
subject.  But  the  censorship  at  that  time  categorically 
forbade  any  statements  to  be  made  which  did  not  show 
life  in  the  schools  in  a  pleasing  light.  Thus  it  was  im- 
possible for  the  story  to  achieve  publicity  at  the  right 
time,  and  it  did  not  appear  until  some  years  later  in 
book  form.  That  has  been  the  fate,  moreover,  of  many 
of  my  things.  In  spite  of  this  the  story  was  not  without 
favorable  results  for  me;  it  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
editorial  staff  and  stimulated  me  to  further  work.  I 
renounced  my  dream  of  becoming  an  artist  and  trans- 


War  xiii 

f erred  my  allegiance  to  literature.  This  was  very  hard; 
even  to-day  I  cannot  see  paintings  without  emotion.  I 
love  colors  more  than  words. 

"  Pasha  Tumanov  was  followed  by  two  or  three  stories 
which  interested  the  editor  of  a  small  review,  a  man 
named  Miroliubov.  My  first  introduction  to  literary 
circles  I  owe  to  him.  Up  till  then  I  had  never  been  in 
editorial  offices,  but  had  always  sent  my  tales  by  post. 
This  was  because  I  imagined  them  as  temples  conse- 
crated to  literature,  which  I  revered.  Nowadays  we  live 
in  other  times  and  have  other  customs  in  Russia;  adver- 
tisement and  influence  dominate  the  literary  world. 
However,  Miroliubov's  name  will  leave  its  mark  on  the 
history  of  Russian  literature,  although  he  did  not  write 
himself. 

"  In  the  year  1905,  during  the  bloody  Revolution  much 
that  I  had  written  for  purposes  of  agitation  was  con- 
fiscated. I  myself  was  indicted,  but  the  temporary  suc- 
cess of  the  Revolution  at  the  end  of  1905  saved  me  from 
punishment. 

"  My  development  was  very  strongly  influenced  by 
Tolstoy,  although  I  never  shared  his  views  on  non-resist- 
ance to  evil.  As  an  artist  he  overpowered  me,  and  I 
found  it  difficult  not  to  model  my  work  on  his.  Dostoev- 
sky,  and  to  a  certain  extent,  Chekhov,  played  almost  as 
great  a  part,  and  Victor  Hugo  and  Goethe  were  con- 
stantly before  my  eyes.  These  five  names  are  those  of 
my  teachers  and  literary  masters. 

"  It  is  often  thought  here  that  Nietzsche  exercised  a 
great  influence  over  me.  This  surprises  me,  for  the  sim- 
ple reason  that  I  never  read  Nietzsche.  This  brilliant 
thinker  is  out  of  sympathy  with  me,  both  in  his  ideas 
and  in  the  bombastic  form  of  his  works,  and  I  have  never 
got  beyond  the  beginnings  of  his  books.  Max  Stirner  is 
to  me  much  nearer  and  more  comprehensible." 

THOMAS  SELTZER. 


WAR 

A  Play  in  Four  Acts,  translated  from  the  Russian  of 
Michael  Artzibashef  by  Thomas  Seltzer 


PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 

PIOTR  IVANOVICH,  a  retired  colonel. 

OLGA  PETROVNA,  his  wife. 

VOLODYA,  a  student,  their  son. 

NINA,  their  daughter. 

VLADIMIR  ALEKSANDROVICH,  an  officer,  her  husband. 

ASYA,  a  young  girl. 

DAUE,  a  second  lieutenant. 

PRINCE  VORONETZKY,  a  landowner. 

SEMYONOV,  a  student. 

SONYA  and  KOLYA,  children  of  an  officer  killed  in  the  war. 

SIDORENKO,  an  officer's  servant. 

KATYA,  a  maid. 

A  medical  student,  a  Sister  of  Mercy,  and  soldiers. 

The  action  takes  place  in  the  house  of  Piotr  in  the  Russia 
of  to-day. 


WAR 


ACT    I 

It  is  a  bright,  sunny  day  in  spring.  The  trees  in  front 
of  an  old  nobleman's  house  are  in  blossom.  Broad 
steps  lead  from  a  columned  terrace  down  to  the  garden. 
On  the  terrace  is  a  large  rush-bottom  armchair,  and  on 
one  side  under  a  large  tree  a  garden  bench.  In  front  of 
the  house  a  circular  plot  with  early  spring  flowers.  Be- 
yond the  trees  is  seen  a  railing  and  a  wicket  gate  open- 
ing into  a  city  street.  Olga  Petrovna,  the  mother,  is  at 
work  in  the  flower  bed,  while  Piotr  Ivanovich,  her  hus- 
band stands  looking  on,  smoking.  He  wears  a  light  uni- 
form and  is  hatless. 

OLGA.  You  had  better  put  your  cap  on,  Piotr. 
You'll  catch  cold. 

PIOTR.     Oh,  no;  I'm  warm. 

OLGA.  Yes,  warm.  You  think  so.  It's  just  the  kind 
of  weather  one  is  apt  to  catch  a  cold  in.  I'll  tell  Katya 
to  bring  you  your  cap. 

PIOTR.     Don't;  I  don't  need  it. 

OLGA    [not  heeding  him,  she   calls].     Katya,  Katya. 

KATYA  [coming  out  on  the  terrace].     What  is  it? 

OLGA.  Bring  the  master's  cap,  and  tell  Aksinya  to 
start  a  fire  in  the  fireplace. 

KATYA.     Yes,  ma'am.      [She  goes  out.] 

PIOTR  [looking  at  his  watch].  It's  time  for  coffee. 
Will  you  be  done  soon? 

3 


4s  War 

OLGA.     What  time  is  it? 

PIOTR.     Half  past  twelve  —  time  long  ago. 

OLGA.  I'll  be  through  in  a  moment.  I  must  tell 
Sidorenko  to  water  the  flowers  every  evening.  He  never 
does  a  stroke  of  work,  anyway  —  just  runs  after  Katya 
the  whole  day. 

KATYA  [coming  down  the  steps].  Here's  your  cap, 
Master. 

OLGA.     Is  Vladimir  Aleksandrovich  up  yet? 

KATYA.  Yes,  he's  washing.  Shall  I  get  the  coffee 
ready  ? 

OLGA.  Yes,  yes.  Take  a  clean  tablecloth  from  the 
sideboard.  And  be  careful  not  to  soil  it  at  once  the  way 
you  always  do.  I  can  never  keep  a  large  enough  supply 
of  tablecloths. 

KATYA.  All  right,  ma'am;  I'll  be  careful.  [She  goes 
into  the  house.] 

PIOTR  [pulling  his  cap  down  on  his  head  with  an 
air  of  gravity].  I  don't  remember  a  spring  like  this  for 
ever  so  long.  Last  year  at  this  time  it  was  still  quite 
cold. 

OLGA.  You  just  imagine  it,  Piotr.  Last  year  was 
warm  too.  It's  the  month  of  May,  thank  God! 

PIOTR.  I  remember  distinctly  wearing  an  overcoat 
when  I  went  out  on  the  tenth  of  May. 

OLGA.  You  don't  remember  any  such  thing.  It's 
your  imagination,  nothing  else,  I  assure  you. 

PIOTR  [heatedly].  But  I  remember  it  distinctly. 
[After  a  pause.]  But  I  never  saw  a  spring  like  the  one 
in  the  year  1877,  when  we  crossed  the  frontier. 

OLGA  [without  heeding  him].  I  haven't  planted 
any  resedas  this  year. 

PIOTR.     When  we  arrived  at  the  Danube  — 

OLGA.  Here  is  Nina.  Why  are  you  dressed  so 
lightly,  Ninochka?  I'll  tell  Vladimir  on  you. 

NINA    [in  a  light  summer  dress,  comes  out  on  the 


War  5 

terrace  and  sits  down  on  the  top  step].  All  right, 
Mamma;  tell  him. —  What  were  you  talking  about  so 
animatedly,  Papa? 

PIOTR.  I  was  saying  that  in  1877,  when  we  crossed 
the  frontier  — 

OLGA  [annoyed].  We've  heard  all  that  before, 
Piotr. 

PIOTR  [with  heat].  Why,  I  declare!  Nina  asked 
me  a  question,  and  I  answered  her.  Why,  why  — 

NINA  [smiling  quietly].  Papa,  isn't  it  time  for  you 
to  take  your  coffee? 

PIOTR  [instantly  forgetting  the  dispute].  Yes,  high 
time.  But  you  can't  tear  your  mother  away  from  her 
flowers ! 

OLGA.     One  moment,  one  moment! 

PIOTR.  I  know  your  "  one  moment."  Nina,  has 
Vladimir  come  back  yet? 

NINA.     He'll  be  here  presently. 

PIOTR.     Well,  Olga. 

OLGA.     You  go,  go.     I'll  be  coming  soon. 

PIOTR  [good-naturedly,  rubbing  his  hands  and  walk- 
ing into  the  house].  Nina,  make  her  come  in  soon,  or 
she'll  be  at  it  the  rest  of  the  day.  [He  goes  into  the 
house.] 

There  is  silence  as  Olga  potters  over  the  flowers, 
passing  from  one  side  of  the  plot  to  the  other.  Nina, 
sitting  on  the  terrace,  looks  around  with  a  bright,  con- 
templative expression. 

NINA.  I  woke  up  today  thinking  it  will  soon  be  three 
years  that  I'm  married.  How  strange ! 

OLGA.     Why  strange? 

NINA.  I  don't  know.  When  I  first  met  Vladimir  I 
didn't  like  him  a  bit,  and  if  somebody  had  told  me  I  was 
going  to  marry  him  I'd  have  laughed  at  the  idea. 

OLGA.     It's  always  like  that. 

NINA   [after  a  silence],     I  had  just  graduated  from 


6  War 

college,  and  my  head  was  all  awhirl  with  the  expectation 
of  something  unusual.  Prince  Voronetsky  was  courting 
me,  and  I  almost  fell  in  love  with  him.  In  fact,  I  was 
a  little  in  love  with  him.  Suddenly  I  stopped  caring  for 
the  Prince  and  began  to  feel  that  Vladimir  was  the  best, 
the  dearest  of  men.  How  stupid  I  was  then,  so  afraid 
people  would  find  out  that  Vladimir  and  I  had  kissed. 
I  thought  something  dreadful  would  happen  if  it  were 
found  out.  But  then  it  did  come  out,  and  there  was 
nothing  terrible  about  it,  and  everybody  was  glad. 
[After  a  silence.]  It  was  a  great  time.  [Sadly.]  It 
seems  to  me  nothing  like  it  will  ever  come  into  my  life 
again. 

OLGA  [in  a  philosophical  tone].  It  was  good,  and 
it  will  be  better  still. 

NINA.  No;  nothing  like  it  again  for  me.  It  was 
something  —  like  a  fairy  tale,  like  a  dream.  I  some- 
times think  there  will  never  again  be  such  nights,  with 
such  a  moon;  that  there  cannot  possibly  be  such  nights 
again.  I  am  happy,  and  yet  it's  sad  to  think  that  the 
best  is  all  behind  me  and  can  never  return. 

OLGA.     How  do  you  know,  Ninochka? 

NINA  [surprised].  But  I  can't  be  Vladimir's  sweet- 
heart all  over  again. 

OLGA  [slyly].     Why  just  Vladimir's? 

NINA  [looking  at  her  in  amazement,  with  sudden 
embarrassment].  Mamma,  what  are  you  saying?  It's 
ugly !  I  don't  like  it. 

OLGA  [amused  at  her  embarrassment].  Why  ugly? 
Lots  of  things  happen  in  the  world.  Suppose  a  war 
were  suddenly  to  be  declared,  and  Vladimir  were  to  be 
killed  —  Heaven  forbid !  Then  you'd  marry  again. 

NINA.  No,  never.  Even  if  Vladimir  were  killed,  I 
would  never  marry  again. 

OLGA.     That's  what  they  all  say,  Ninochka;  but  all 


War  7 

the  same,  when  it  comes  to  it,  they  do  marry  again  and 
bear  children. 

NINA.  Disgusting.  How  can  a  woman  ever  forget 
what  has  been,  especially  if  the  man  she  loved  is  killed? 
It's  horrid. 

OLOA.  Of  course  it's  horrid.  But  what  is  one  to  do? 
Bury  oneself  in  a  monastery  ?  You  cry  and  cry  —  and 
then  you  forget.  One  must  live  some  way. 

NINA.  I  don't  see  why  it's  so  absolutely  necessary. 
And  then,  even  if  I  should  marry  again,  I  should  feel 
miserable  and  awkward. 

OLGA.     It  only  seems  so  to  you  now,  Ninochka. 

NINA.  No,  it  doesn't  only  seem  so;  I  know  it.  How 
can  one  feel  the  same  way  a  second  time?  No  matter 
how  much  I  loved  my  second  husband,  I'd  always  be  re- 
membering and  comparing!  No,  it's  ugly. 

OLGA.     There  is  nothing  ugly  about  it. 

NINA.  It  is  ugly.  Anyway,  I  think  it  would  be  far 
better  to  fall  in  love  and  then  die,  than  to  have  to  return 
again  to  a  dull,  prosaic,  every-day  existence. 

OLGA.  If  that's  the  way  you  take  it,  then  life  isn't 
worth  living. 

NINA.     Perhaps  it  isn't. 

OLGA.  And  yet  here  have  we  been  living  together, 
your  father  and  I,  and  have  both  grown  old,  and  still 
we  have  no  desire  to  die. 

NINA.     Oh,  you;  that's  different. 

OLGA.     You  only  think  it's  different. 

NINA.     Why  only  think?     What  do  you  mean? 

OLGA.  Exactly  what  I  say.  You  imagine  it's  dif- 
ferent, but  it  isn't.  It's  because  you  have  no  children. 
When  you  get  children,  you'll  settle  down  at  once. 

NINA    [blushing].     I    shall   never    have   children. 

OLGA.     And,  pray,  why  not? 

NINA.     Because  —  because  I  don't  like  children. 


8  War 

OLGA.  You  don't  like  them  because  you  haven't  got 
them.  When  I  was  young,  I,  too,  thought  I  didn't  like 
children;  but  when  I  lost  my  Sandy,  I  nearly  went 
crazy. 

Silence. 

NINA.     Still,  it's  all  very  sad. 

OLGA.  Sad,  sad !  —  You  had  better  put  more  clothes 
on,  or  you'll  catch  cold. 

NINA.  Now,  Mother !  how  can  one  catch  cold  in  such 
weather  ? 

OLGA  [insistently].  This  is  just  the  kind  of  weather 
one  is  apt  to  catch  cold  in. 

KATYA  [appearing  on  the  steps].  The  master  is  call- 
ing you. 

OLGA.  I  am  coming;  I  am  coming.  [She  straightens 
herself,  shakes  her  hands,  smoothes  down  her  gray  hair, 
and  goes  quickly  into  the  house.]  Really  Ninochka,  you 
had  better  put  something  on.  I'll  have  Katya  get  you 
a  jacket.  Yes?  Shall  I? 

NINA.     Why,  Mamma,  upon  my  word! 

OLGA.  See  here,  Nina,  you'll  catch  cold,  and  then 
you'll  be  coughing  like  Senya  Semyonov.  [She  goes  out, 
accompanied  by  Katya.] 

NINA  [sitting  alone  on  the  steps,  all  bathed  in  the  sun- 
light, smiles  gently  and  brightly  at  some  thought  that 
passes  through  her  mind].  Oh,  how  good! 

She  folds  her  hands  behind  her  head,  stretches  her 
supple  body  languidly,  looks  once  more  into  the  blossom- 
ing garden,  and  walks  slowly  into  the  house. 

It  is  quiet.  The  sun  is  shining.  Somewhere  in  the 
garden,  the  sparrows  chirp  roguishly.  Asya  Kachalova 
and  Semyonov  appear  at  the  gate,  Asya  in  a  light  dress 
and  with  a  light  sunshade  in  her  hand,  Semyonov  in  a 
student's  coat  buttoned  to  the  chin,  notwithstanding  the 
warm  weather,  and  with  a  stout,  crooked  cane  hang- 


War  9 

ing  from  a  button.  He  carries  Asya's  book  in  his 
hands. 

SEMYONOV.  Volodya  is  still  in  bed  fast  asleep,  I  sup- 
pose. 

ASYA.     Why,  it's  one  o'clock  already. 

SEMYONOV.  What  does  he  care?  Go  in  and  see. 
I'll  wait  here.  If  I  go  in,  Piotr  Ivanovich  will  start  off 
again  on  the  war  of  seventy-seven. 

ASYA  [laughing].  All  right.  Sit  down.  I'll  be 
back  soon.  [She  mounts  the  steps  lightly  and  rapidly 
and  enters  the  house.] 

SEMYONOV  [he  is  homely  and  thin,  and  his  face  is 
drawn  by  suffering.  He  sits  down  on  the  bench  under  the 
tree,  and  coughs  drily].  Yes,  that's  the  way.  [He 
beats  the  tip  of  his  shoe  lightly  with  his  cane.]  It's  a 
rotten  deal  I  am  getting,  though  —  yes,  a  rotten  deal. 
[He  whistles  quietly,  tapping  the  ground  with  his  cane, 
and  hanging  his  head.  Vladimir  Aleksandrovich,  back 
from  the  drill,  enters  from  the  street.] 

VLADIMIR.  Ah,  Semyon  Nikolayevich !  How  do  you 
do  ?  All  alone  here !  Where  are  the  others  ? 

SEMYONOV.     I  don't  know.     I've  just  come. 

VLADIMIR.  Why  don't  you  come  in,  then?  They're 
having  coffee,  I  suppose. 

SEMYONOV.  No,  thanks;  I'd  rather  stay  here.  I  am 
bored  to  death  by  the  war  of  1877. 

VLADIMIR  [laughing].  Well,  well!  I  didn't  know 
Piotr  Ivanovich  had  made  you  his  victim  too. 

SEMYONOV  [with  an  expression  of  horror].  I  tell  you, 
it's  frightful.  Whew ! 

VLADIMIR.  Piotr  Ivanovich  is  an  eccentric.  Very 
well,  then,  if  you  wish  to  stay  here,  I'll  send  Volodya  to 
keep  you  company.  [As  he  goes  into  the  house,  he 
calls.]  Sidorenko ! 

Semyonov  whistles  quietly  and  taps  his  cane. 

ASYA   [comes  out  on  the  terrace,  beaming  with  joy]. 


10  War 

Why,  Volodya  has  really  j  ust  got  up.  What  a  lazy  fel- 
low! 

SEMYONOV  [bitterly].     He's  a  darling! 

ASYA  [turning  a  quick  glance  upon  him].  You  are 
horrid,  Senya. 

SEMYONOV.  Not  at  all.  It  only  hurts  me  to  see  you 
so  much  in  love. 

ASYA  [bursting  out].     What  makes  you  think  that? 

SEMYONOV.  For  a  woman  to  go  off  into  raptures  over 
a  man's  sleeping  till  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  is  a 
very  bad  sign  indeed.  To  my  mind  sleeping  till  one 
o'clock  is  just  plain  dissipation  and  nothing  else. 

ASYA  [pouting,  and  going  into  the  garden].  You  are 
jealous  because  other  people  are  in  good  health  and 
you  — 

SEMYONOV  [bitterly].  That's  cruel,  Aleksandra  Ivan- 
ovna. 

ASYA  [flinging  herself  towards  him,  penitently]. 
Forgive  me,  Senya.  I  did  not  mean  to  offend  you. 
Don't  be  angry. 

SEMYONOV  [without  looking  at  her].  I  am  not  angry. 
What  business  have  I  to  be  angry?  You  are  perfectly 
right.  It  is  jealousy  —  though  no  wonder  a  man's 
jealous  to  see  everybody  and  everything  around  him 
blooming,  rejoicing,  making  love,  and  himself  dying. 

ASYA.     Senya,  don't  talk  that  way.     You  mustn't. 

SEMYONOV.  Why?  It's  true.  I  am  dying;  that's  all 
there  is  to  it.  [Asya  looks  at  him  with  pity,  at  a  loss 
what  to  say.] 

SEMYONOV  [without  looking  at  her,  and  tapping  his 
cane  as  before].  Yes,  such  is  the  law  of  nature,  and 
there's  no  help  for  it.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  all  quite 
natural,  quite  in  conformity  with  the  purpose  of  nature. 
Only  it's  a  damn  shame  that  Nature  in  following  out  her 
purpose  should  have  fixed  just  upon  me,  the  devil  take 
it !  However,  someone  has  got  to  die  —  if  not  I,  then 


War  11 

someone  else.  And  I  shouldn't  gain  so  very  much  if  I 
were  to  live  twenty  years  more. 

ASYA.     Why  are  you  so  bitter  against  life,  Senya? 

SEMYONOV.  What  has  life  given  me,  Asya?  If  I 
were  as  strong  as  your  Volodya,  and  if  "I  were  loved  by 
a  girl  like  you,  then  I  too  would  sing  hosannahs.  But, 
as  it  is,  it  isn't  worth  while,  upon  my  word!  [With  an 
unnatural  smile.']  Fall  in  love  with  me,  Asya,  yes? 

ASYA.  What  nonsense !  [In  her  embarrassment,  she 
begins  to  draw  circles  around  her  with  her  sun-shade.] 

SEMYONOV.     To  you  it's  nonsense;  but  to  me  — 

ASYA.     It's  nonsense  to  you,  too. 

SEMYONOV.  Not  quite.  In  your  relations  to  Volodya, 
I  — 

ASYA  [interrupting  him~\.  First  of  all,  what  has  that 
got  to  do  with  you  ? 

SEMYONOV  [with  a  bitter  smile'].  Absolutely  nothing. 
[After  a  silence.]  And  yet  it's  all  extremely  unjust. 

ASYA.     What  is? 

SEMYONOV.  Everything.  Why  are  things  given  to 
cne  and  taken  away  from  another?  Here  is  Volodya, 
and  here  am  I.  He  has  an  iron  constitution,  health,  love. 
He  has  life  before  him,  and  he  has  the  joy  of  living. 
Like  all  people  in  good  health,  he  is  happy  just  to  be 
alive.  And  I  have  nothing  except  tuberculosis  and  the 
prospect  of  dying  a  perhaps  painful  death  in  the  near 
future. 

ASYA.     Again,  Senya! 

SEMYONOV.  It's  a  fact,  Aleksandra  Ivanovna.  You 
can't  get  away  from  it.  In  my  opinion,  it  would  be 
fairer  by  far  if  you  loved,  not  Volodya,  but  me. 

ASYA.     Again!     Aren't  you  sick  of  it,  Senya? 

SEMYONOV.  I  am  —  and  have  been  for  a  long  time 
—  and  yet — [In  an  unnatural,  ironical  tone.]  It 
would  really  be  much  more  poetical  if,  instead  of  loving 
Volodya,  you  would  cheer  and  beautify  the  last  days  of 


12  War 

my  life.  This  way,  what  is  it?  You  will  marry,  bear 
children  — 

ASYA.  You  are  talking  nonsense,  Mr.  Semyonov,  and 
are  insolent  besides. 

SEMYONOV  [sadly'].  I  know  it!  Forgive  me,  Asya; 
I  really  feel  very  ill. 

ASYA  [softening  at  once'].  I  am  not  angry,  but  you 
mustn't  speak  about  it. 

There  is  a  silence.  Asya  bends  over  towards  the 
flowers  and  smells  them.  Semyonov  looks  at  her,  and, 
as  he  looks,  his  face  gradually  assumes  an  angry  expres- 
sion. 

SEMYONOV  [with  a  sinister  smile].  But  my,  how  des- 
perately in  love  you  are,  Asya ! 

ASYA  [quickly  drawing  herself  up].  This  is  getting 
to  be  intolerable,  really. 

SEMYONOV  [laughing  maliciously].  ,1  am  a  fool. 
Why  should  I  have  asked  your  pardon?  What  for? 
You  are  in  love;  you  enjoy  life;  you  are  happy.  But 
why  should  I  respect  your  happiness?  Why  should  I 
be  glad  of  it?  [Rising  and  flourishing  his  cane.]  I 
spit  upon  your  happiness  and  upon  your  love;  I  have 
a  right  not  only  to  refuse  to  respect  your  love;  I  have 
a  right  to  be  jealous  of  you,  to  hate  you,  despise  you, 
ridicule  you  —  anything  I  please.  You  happy  people 
should  be  thankful  to  us  unhappy  ones  that  we  tolerate 
your  happiness. —  All  right.  Live,  enjoy  yourselves, 
love  each  other,  think  that  the  whole  world  was  created 
for  nothing  but  your  pleasure,  be  fruitful  and  multiply, 
and  —  be  damned !  Goodby !  [He  turns  abruptly  and 
goes  out  of  the  garden.,  Asya  looks  after  him,  fright- 
ened and  surprised.  Volodya  enters.] 

VOLODYA  [on  the  terrace].  Semyonov,  where  are  you 
going?  Hello,  Asya.  [He  runs  down  to  her  and 
presses  her  hand  hard.]  Semyonov! 


War  13 

SEMYONOV  [turning  around  for  a  moment,  bitterly]. 
Go  to  the  devil! 

He  goes  out.     A  silence  ensues. 

VOLODYA.     What's  the  matter?     What's  happened? 

ASYA  [embarrassed"] .  I  don't  know,  really.  He  is 
so  queer. 

VOLODYA.  Yes;  isn't  it  a  pity?  His  sickness  has 
soured  him.  Oh,  well,  it's  nothing, —  a  momentary  fit. 
He  gets  attacks  like  that  now  and  then,  but  he  is  a  fine 
fellow  at  bottom.  [He  takes  Asya's  hand.]  How  well 
you  look  today,  Asya! 

ASYA  [laughing].  You  tell  me  the  same  thing  each 
time. 

VOLODYA  [taking  her  other  hand  also].  Don't  you 
like  it?  Don't  you?  [Bending  his  head  and  looking 
into  her  eyes.]  Don't  you  like  it,  Asya?  \Katya  comes 
out  on  the  terrace  and  shakes  the  tablecloth.] 

VOLODYA  [letting  go  of  Asya's  hands  and  looking  at 
Katya;  in  an  unnatural  tone  of  voice].  Have  you  been 
to  the  library  today? 

ASYA  [confused].  Yes,  I  got  you —  [Frightened.] 
He  carried  off  my  books. 

VOLODYA.     Who? 

ASYA.  Senya.  I  got  the  novels  for  you,  but  he  has 
taken  them  away. 

Katya  goes  out. 

VOLODYA.  Never  mind;  he'll  bring  them  back. 
Come  into  the  garden,  Asya. 

ASYA  [with  a  shy  look].     What  for? 

VOLODYA.     Just  for  a  little  walk. 

ASYA  [shyly  shaking  her  head  and  closing  her  eyes]. 

VOLODYA.     Why  not? 


14  War 

ASYA  [suddenly  lowering  her  eyes,  in  an  undertone]. 
You'll  begin  to  speak  about  that  again. 

VOLODYA.  About  what?  [He  takes  her  hand.] 
About  what,  Asya? 

ASYA  [making  a  slight  effort  to  pull  her  hand  away]. 
Why,  about  that  .  .  . 

VOLODYA.  What's  the  use  of  talking?  Don't  I  love 
you,  Asya? 

ASYA.     Is  that  love? 

VOLODYA  [passionately].  Yes,  of  course.  You  are 
a  woman)  Asya.  Why  shouldn't  I  speak  about  it? 
Anyway,  it's  got  to  come  sooner  or  later. 

ASYA  [lowering  her  eyes].     No,  it  never  will. 

VOLODYA.  Yes,  it  will!  It  will!  [He  seizes  her 
hand  in  a  tight  pressure  and  draws  her  to  him.]  Asya ! 

ASYA.  Volodya,  Volodya,  you  have  gone  out  of  your 
mind ! 

Sidorenko  enters  from  the  garden  with  a  watering- 
can  in  his  hand;  they  fly  apart. 

VOLODYA   [confused].     What  do  you  want? 

SIDORENKO  [frightened].  Nothing,  Mr.  Volodya. 
I  —  I  was  going  to  water  the  flowers. 

VOLODYA.  You'll  do  it  some  other  time.  Vladimir 
Aleksandrovich  wants  you. 

SIDORENKO.  Yes,  sir.  [He  sets  the  can  near  the 
flowers  and  slowly  passes  into  the  house.] 

ASYA  [in  a  low  voice].  Let's  go  away  somewhere, 
Volodya. 

VOLODYA   [slyly].     Where  to? 

ASYA  [blushing  and  smiling,  and  looking  at  him  with 
bright,  loving  eyes].  Well,  into  the  garden,  if  you  want 
to;  it's  all  the  same. 

VOLODYA  [rapturously].  My  dear  girl,  my  sweet- 
heart ! 

ASYA.  Only  please,  Volodya,  not  like  yesterday.  .  .  . 
You  mustn't  . 


War  15 

VOLODYA.     Why  mustn't  I  ? 

ASYA.     You  mustn't,  and  that's  all.     It's  bad. 

Volodya  suddenly  flings  his  arms  around  her  and 
kisses  her. 

ASYA  [struggling  to  free  herself  and  frightened], 
Volodya,  Volodya !  You  are  mad.  Let  me  go !  [For 
a  moment  she  remains  still,  abandoning  herself  to  his 
kisses,  then  tears  herself  away,  looks  at  him  with  happy, 
mist-covered  eyes,  and  runs  into  the  garden,  Volodya 
following  her.] 

The  stage  is  empty.  Sidorenko  comes  out  of  the 
house,  takes  the  can,  yawns,  crosses  to  the  other  side, 
and  goes  out.  Nina  and  Vladimir  enter. 

NINA.     Where  are  our  young  people  ? 

VLADIMIR.  I  don't  know.  They  were  here  a  few 
minutes  ago.  They  must  have  gone  into  the  garden. 

NINA  [sitting  down  on  the  top  step].  I  feel  so 
happy  today.  Maybe  it's  because  the  sun  is  so  bright. 

VLADIMIR  [seating  himself  next  to  her  on  the  broad 
stone  balustrade].  And  maybe  it's  because  I  love  you. 
[He  takes  her  hand,  kisses  it,  and  puts  it  on  his  knee.] 
My  dear,  sweet  Nina ! 

NINA  [laughing].     We  are  all  dear  and  sweet. 

VLADIMIR  [after  a  short  silence,  stroking  her  hand]. 
It's  good  to  be  living  in  the  world,  after  all. 

NINA    [thoughtfully].     Sometimes  too   good,  even. 

VLADIMIR.     Why  too  good? 

NINA.     Because  —  it's  awful. 

VLADIMIR.     Awful? 

NINA.  Yes,  awful!  Nothing  is  lasting.  We  know 
that  things  cannot  continue  the  same  forever. 

VLADIMIR  [catching  her  thought].     Oh! 

NINA  [seizing  his  hand  and  looking  at  him  wide-eyed], 
So  that  when  you  know  your  happiness  will  not  last 
forever,  and  that  after  happiness  must  come  sorrow, 
you  begin  to  feel  so  awful,  awful! 


16  War 

VLADIMIR.     Why  think  about  it,  Nina? 

NINA.  I  don't  know;  it  keeps  running  in  my  head. 
I  am  very,  very  happy,  Vladimir. 

VLADIMIR  [bending  down  and  kissing  her  fingers'], 
You  are  bored,  darling.  You  know,  I  sometimes  think 
I  am  committing  a  crime  by  living  with  you. 

NINA.     What  are  you  talking  about? 

VLADIMIR.  You  see,  I  am  such  a  simple,  uninteresting 
fellow,  I  must  bore  you.  You  should  have  had  a  different 
kind  of  husband. 

NINA  [putting  her  hand  over  his  lips].  Don't  talk 
nonsense. 

VLADIMIR  [kissing  her  hand  and  gently  pulling  it 
away~\.  No,  Nina;  I'm  not  joking.  Who  am  I?  An 
ordinary,  humdrum  army  officer,  that's  all,  whereas  you 
are  a  fine,  clever,  beautiful,  unusual  woman.  You  should 
have  had  a  talented,  educated,  rich  man  for  a  husband, 
and  you  ought  to  live  in  a  large  city,  meet  lots  of  people, 
and  shine  in  society.  Why  didn't  you  marry  the  Prince, 
Nina? 

NINA  [laughing].   Because  I  married  you.    That's  all. 

VLADIMIR  [a  little  jealous].  He  is  much  more  of 
your  sort  than  I  am. 

NINA.     Vladimir,  I'll  get  angry. 

VLADIMIR.  I  won't  any  more ;  I  won't.  [After  a  brief 
silence].  Oh,  it  will  be  all  right.  Next  fall  I'll  pass 
the  examinations  for  the  Academy,  and  then  we'll  move  to 
St.  Petersburg.  Our  whole  life  is  still  before  us;  isn't 
it,  my  little  Nina? 

NINA.     Of  course  it  is,  dear. 

VLADIMIR  [kissing  her  hand].  My  dear,  precious 
Nina.  We  are  still  going  to  enjoy  life.  One  must  have 
faith,  and  work;  that's  all.  You  know,  Nina,  when  I 
look  at  you,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  sun  shines  only  be- 
cause you  are  here —  [Looking  around.]  I  hear 
someone  coming. 


War  17 

Prince  Voronetsky  and  Second  Lieutenant  Dane  come 
in  through  the  wicket  gate. 

VLADIMIR  [in  involuntary  excitement].  The  Prince 
again ! 

NINA  [hurriedly].  Never  mind.  I'll  say  I  am  not 
feeling  well. 

VLADIMIR  [trying  to  conceal  his  excitement].  No, 
don't.  Why  should  you?  [Rising  to  meet  the  guests], 
How  do  you  do,  Prince!  How  are  you,  Daue!  Is  this 
a  social  call,  or  have  you  come  on  business  ? 

DAUE.  I  am  just  coming  from  the  office.  Mak- 
simych  asked  me  to  bring  this  to  you.  [He  hands  him  a 
paper.]  Good  afternoon,  Nina  Petrovna.  [He  kisses 
her  hand.]  I've  brought  you  a  delightful  piece  of 
music.  We'll  play  it  together.  [The  Prince  silently 
kisses  Nina's  hand  and  salutes  Vladimir  Aleksandro- 
vich.] 

VLADIMIR  [rapidly  glancing  over  the  paper].  Daue, 
will  you  step  into  my  room  a  moment?  I'd  like  to  talk 
to  you.  Prince,  you'll  excuse  us,  won't  you? 

PRINCE.     Certainly. 

VLADIMIR.  We'll  be  back  soon,  Nina.  Come, 
Daue. 

Vladimir  and  Daue  go  into  the  house.  During  a 
silence  Nina  remains  sitting,  with  a  listless,  indifferent 
air,  and  with  her  eyes  turned  away  -from  the  Prince. 

PRINCE  [with  a  smirk.]  You  seem  to  be  angry  with 
me,  Nina  Petrovna? 

NINA  [coldly].  I  am  not  angry.  I  feel  queer;  that's 
all.  I  thought  it  was  all  at  an  end. 

PRINCE   [his  face  darkening].     But  if  I  can't? 

NINA  [coldly,  shrugging  her  shoulders].  I  don't 
know.  It's  your  affair.  But  if  you  really  love  me  as 
you  say,  then  you  ought  to  spare  me ;  you  ought  to  leave 
me  alone. 

PRINCE    [quickly].     So   my  presence  excites  you? 


18  War 

NINA.  Not  in  the  sense  that  you  mean.  It  is  simply 
unpleasant. 

PRINCE.     To  whom?     To  you  or  your  husband? 
NINA    [haughtily].     Please    leave   my    husband   out. 
What   has   my   husband  got  to  do  with  it?     It's  very 
disagreeable  to  me. 

PRINCE.     But  why?     Do  tell  me  why? 

NINA  [excitedly  pulling  at  her  handkerchief  and  not 
looking  at  him].  You  ought  to  understand,  Prince.  I 
respect  you,  hold  you  in  high  esteem  as  a  man.  But 
really  it's  time  at  last  that  you  realized  how  exceedingly 
unpleasant  it  is  to  me  [growing  irritated]  —  these  con- 
stant explanations,  your  dogged  pursuit  of  me.  It's  all 
very  tiresome  and  difficult,  really. 

PRINCE  [sadly,  twirling  his  moustache  and  looking 
sidewise  at  her].  It's  your  own  fault,  Nina  Petrovna. 

NINA    [in  surprise].     My   fault?     That's   strange. 

PRINCE.  Yes,  yours.  Whose  fault  is  it  that  no  other 
woman  exists  for  me  beside  you,  that  I  think  only  of 
you,  see  only  you?  If  your  voice,  your  walk,  the  scent 
of  your  perfumes,  even  the  rustle  of  your  dress  turn 
my  head  and  drive  me  crazy,  whose  fault  is  it?  Who 
did  it? 

NINA.  I  don't  know.  I  certainly  didn't  mean  to  do 
it. 

PRINCE  [bitterly].     It  isn't  true. 

NINA  [offended].     Prince! 

PRINCE.  Yes,  it's  not  true.  You  are  not  really  what 
you  can  make  yourself  seem  to  be.  You  are  just  an 
ordinary  woman,  but  you  have  acquired  the  art  of  seem- 
ing to  be  very  different.  Your  hair  lies  on  your  head  as 
on  no  other  woman's,  your  walk  excites,  and  your  dress 
seems  part  of  yourself,  so  that  you  produce  the  impres- 
sion of  being  altogether  out  of  the  ordinary,  a  woman 
of  rare  beauty.  But  tell  me  frankly,  when  you  stand 
for  hours  in  front  of  the  mirror,  when  you  stretch  and 


War  19 

massage  and  coddle  your  body,  when  you  move,  laugh, 
or  dance,  do  you  do  it  quite  naturally,  quite  uncon- 
sciously, with  absolutely  no  design? 

NINA  [confused].  An  odd  question!  You've  gone 
out  of  your  mind,  Prince. 

PRINCE.     Maybe.     I  sometimes  think  so  myself. 

Silence. 

NINA  [agitated,  without  looking  at  him].  Perhaps 
you  are  right.  [The  Prince  utters  a  short,  queer  chuckle. 
Nina  gives  him  a  quick,  almost  frightened  look.]  All 
right,  if  you  insist;  it's  partly  my  own  fault.  I 
shouldn't  have  allowed  it  to  come  to  this.  I  have  enough 
sense  not  to  be  insulted  at  being  told  the  truth,  and 
enough  courage  to  admit  it.  There  once  was  a  time 
when  I  tried  to  please  you. 

PRINCE   [sarcastically].     Once? 

NINA  [greatly  agitated].  Well,  yes,  and  afterwards, 
too,  I  didn't  always  act  as  I  should  have.  But,  after 
all,  I  am  only  a  woman, —  j  ust  an  ordinary  woman, 
as  you  say.  I  am  to  blame, —  but  now  it's  all  at  an 
end. 

PRINCE  [somberly].  It  cannot  end  this  way,  Nina 
Petrovna. 

NINA  [in  distress].  But  understand  me,  for  heaven's 
sake !  —  I  don't  want  to  —  You  are  torturing  me. —  I 
love  my  husband! 

PRINCE  [obstinately].     What  do  I  care  about  that? 

NINA.  But  I  implore  you!  [In  sudden  anger.] 
But  what  do  you  mean  by  this?  Can  you  force  me?  I 
have  a  right  to  demand  that  you  let  me  alone. 

PRINCE.  This  is  a  question  about  which  I  could  say 
a  lot  to  you,  Nina  Petrovna.  But  your  people  are  com- 
ing. Another  time. 

Both  are  silent.  Vladimir  and  Dane  -walk  down  from 
the  terrace. 


20  War 

VLADIMIR.     So  your  mind  is  quite  made  up? 

DAUE.  Oh,  yes;  I'll  leave  the  regiment  in  August  and 
enter  the  Conservatory  next  fall. 

VLADIMIR.     We'll  meet  in  St.  Petersburg,  then. 

DAUE.     You'll  be  in  the  Academy? 

VLADIMIR.  I  hope  so.  [Walking  up  to  Nina  and  the 
Prince.]  Here  we  are  again. 

DAUE  [gleefully].  Well,  Nina  Petrovna,  shall  we 
play  that  piece  now  ? 

NINA  [distracted,  not  having  yet  completely  regained 
her  composure].  What  piece?  —  Oh,  yes  —  of  course. 

DAUE.  I  brought  the  music  with  me,  too.  [With 
animation.]  I  am  very  anxious  to  play  it  for  you.  It's 
so  bright  and  sunny. 

PRINCE  [glumly],  Daue  seems  to  be  in  love  with 
Nina  Petrovna. 

DAUE  [with  quiet  ease].  Oh,  no.  If  I  am  in  love 
with  anything  it's  with  music. 

PRINCE.     Get  out!     I  don't  believe  you. 

DAUE.  Upon  my  word!  You  know,  I  often  wonder 
how  one  can  fall  in  love  with  women,  suffer,  and  plague 
one's  self  on  account  of  them,  when  there  is  music  in  the 
world.  To  my  mind,  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  ex- 
istence is  not  worth  a  single  Beethoven  sonata. 

VLADIMIR.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  whole  world  and 
all  that  is  in  it  is  not  worth  as  much  to  you  as  that 
Beethoven  sonata.  How  did  you  ever  come  to  be  an 
officer,  Daue? 

DAUE.  I  have  always  thought  it  strange  myself. 
You  see,  I  never  dared  to  dream  that  I  could  be  a  real 
musician.  I  thought  a  real  musician  was  something  ex- 
traordinary. I  had  to  choose  an  ordinary  occupation. 
My  father  was  a  soldier;  so  I  became  a  soldier,  too. 
But  I  am  going  to  leave  now.  My  mind  is  positively 
made  up.  I'll  devote  myself  entirely  to  music,  and  I 


War  21 

think  I  can  still  turn  out  to  be  something.  [He  looks 
round,  smiling  diffidently.] 

VLADIMIR.     I  have  no  doubt  of  it. 

DAUE  [a-quiver  with  impatience].  Well,  Nina  Pe- 
trovna  ? 

NINA.     I  am  ready. —  You  stay  here  and  listen. 

VLADIMIR.  All  right.  Will  you  have  a  cigarette, 
Prince  ? 

Nina  and  Daue  go  into  the  house. 

VLADIMIR  [lighting  a  cigarette].  He  is  a  remarkable 
man  —  Daue  is.  Nothing  exists  for  him  outside  of  mu- 
sic. 

PRINCE  [mechanically,  thinking  of  something  else]. 
Yes  —  he  is  a  talented  chap. 

VLADIMIR.  When  there  was  talk  of  war  last  year, 
Daue  was  in  despair.  It  was  distressing  to  see  him. 
And  it  wasn't  because  he  is  a  coward,  but  because  for 
him  to  give  up  his  violin  is  like  giving  up  his  life. 
[Musing.]  But  every  one  of  us  has  something  he  holds 
especially  dear. 

There  is  a  pause.  The  tuning  of  a  violin  and  the 
sounds  of  a  piano  along  with  the  tuning  are  heard  com- 
ing from  the  house. 

VLADIMIR.  Yes,  every  one  has  something  which  he 
values  above  everything  else.  And  yet,  let  war  be  de- 
clared, and  we'd  all  drop  what's  dearest  to  us  and  go  out 
to  kill  and  die.  Come  to  think  of  it,  it's  queer,  isn't 
it?  But  we'd  do  it,  just  the  same.  Yes,  we'd  go.  And 
Daue  would  be  among  the  first.  He'd  drop  his  violin 
and  go  with  the  rest. 

PRINCE   [mechanically].     Yes,  it's  so,  of  course. 

Olga  and  Piotr  come  out  on  the  balcony. 
OLGA.     The    Prince    is    here,    too.     Good   afternoon. 


22  War 

Ninochka  and  Daue  are  going  to  give  us  some  music. 
Let's  listen. 

PIOTR  [with  an  air  of  lively  satisfaction].  I  like  to 
hear  them  play.  I  always  listen  to  them  with  great 
pleasure.  Daue  is  a  genuine  musician.  In  our  regiment 
there  was  an  officer  who  — 

OLGA  [sitting  down  on  the  stoop].  Hush,  Piotr. 
Listen. 

Daue  plays  a  bright,  cheerful  melody  on  the  violin, 
accompanied  by  Nina.  All  listen.  Olga  nods  her  head 
in  time  to  the  music.  Vladimir  smiles  with  satisfaction. 
But  the  Prince  listens  with  an  expression  of  pain  on  his 
face.  Asya  and  Volodya  come  in  at  the  sound  of  the 
music.  They  greet  the  Prince  from  a  distance,  and 
stop  short. 

PIOTR.     Wonderful.     What  is  it? 

OLGA  [annoyed,  motioning  him  to  keep  quiet].  Sh-sh, 
Piotr;  don't  talk. 

The  music  rises  to  a  high,  joyous  note  and  stops. 

ALL.  Bravo!  Bravo,  Daue!  Encore!  [There  is 
general  animation.  Asya  and  Volodya  cross  over  to  the 
others.] 

ASYA.  What  a  beautiful  piece!  What  is  it?  I've 
never  heard  it  before.  It's  exquisite !  Once  more,  once 
more.  [She  runs  into  the  house.]  Play  it  again,  please, 
Nina  Petrovna. 

OLGA  [reproachfully].  Out  here  again  without  your 
cap,  Piotr. 

PIOTR.  For  heaven's  sake!  Let  me  alone,  please. 
Do  me  the  favor,  won't  you? 

OLGA.  A  favor,  yes.  And  if  you  catch  cold,  who 
will  look  after  you? 

Piotr  Ivanovich  throws  up  his  hands  in  despair.  All 
laugh. 

VLADIMIR.  I  didn't  know  Asya  was  here.  xShe  is  a 
dear  girl.  Nina  is  very  fond  of  her,  too. 


War  23 

OLGA.     Everybody  likes  her. 

VLADIMIR  [with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes].  And  Volodya 
more  than  anybody  else. 

OLGA.  Thank  God  for  that.  We'll  marry  them,  and 
then  we'll  all  live  together  even  more  nicely  than  before. 
We  must  marry  off  the  Prince,  too.  You  ought  to  find 
yourself  a  nice,  good  girl,  Prince,  and  marry;  and  then 
you  and  your  wife  would  be  coming  to  see  us  and  have 
tea  with  us,  and  all  would  be  just  right.  It  would  be 
so  nice. 

PRINCE  [with  a  scarcely  perceptible  touch  of  irony]. 
I  am  afraid  it  would  turn  out  to  be  too  nice. 

Dane  plays  again.     All  are  silent. 


CURTAIN 


ACT   II 

A  few  weeks  later. 

It  is  the  dining-room  in  the  house  of  Piotr.  The 
table  is  spread  for  a  farewell  luncheon.  A  door  on  the 
right  leads  to  the  hallway  in  which  Sidorenko  is  locking 
and  strapping  up  trunks.  The  bell  rings.  Sidorenko 
opens  the  door,  admitting  Asya  and  Semyonov.  Asya 
takes  off  her  hat,  Semyonov  hangs  up  his  overcoat,  and 
both  enter  the  dining-room. 

ASYA.  Nobody  in.  We  had  better  wait  here,  Senya. 
I  suppose  they  are  not  thinking  about  us  now.  They 
have  enough  to  occupy  them. 

SEMYONOV.  All  right,  let's  wait.  [He  sits  down  at 
the  window  and  lights  a  cigarette.] 

ASYA.     Smoking  again,  Senya?     That's  bad  for  you. 

SEMYONOV.  What's  the  difference?  I'll  die  if  I 
smoke,  and  I'll  die  if  I  don't.  I  can't  last  much  longer, 
no  matter  what  I  do. 

Asya  nervously  paces  the  room,  smoothing  down  a 
wrinkled  corner  of  the  tablecloth,  and  gazing  through 
the  window. 

SEMYONOV.     Why  are  you  so  nervous,  Asya? 

ASYA.  I  don't  know.  I  can't  get  it  into  my  head. 
It's  all  so  unexpected. 

SEMYONOV.  Unexpected?  Hardly.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  was  to  be  expected  long  ago.  Do  you  think 
the  Germans  have  been  preparing  for  war  these  forty 
years  for  their  own  private  satisfaction,  eh? 

24 


War  25 

ASYA.  I  didn't  mean  it  that  way.  You  could  have 
told  it  was  coming,  I  suppose;  you  know  about  such 
things;  but  to  me  it  would  have  been  unexpected,  no 
matter  when  it  came.  I  can't  imagine  how  people  can 
make  up  their  minds  to  such  a  horror.  The  misery  and 
tears  it  has  brought  into  almost  every  home !  In  the 
whole  city  there  isn't  one  who  hasn't  some  relative  or 
some  dear  friend  to  take  leave  of.  The  soldiers  are  so 
jolly,  and  they  sing  as  they  go.  Even  the  officers  look 
as  though  they  are  glad.  But  my  heart  contracts  when 
I  think  of  the  many  of  them  that  are  doomed  to  death 
and  terrible  agony  and  suffering.  And  yet  you  know, 
Senya,  I  don't  feel  so  sorry  for  those  who  leave  for  the 
front  as  for  those  who  stay  behind.  Why,  it's  terri- 
ble to  see  those  you  love  go  off  to  war.  How  many  of 
them  will  never  return !  Yet  every  one  of  them  has  a 
mother,  a  wife,  children.  What  must  they  be  feeling 
now !  What  will  they  be  thinking  all  the  time !  How 
many  tears  they  will  shed !  —  No ;  it's  terrible,  terrible ! 
It's  easier  to  die  oneself. 

SEMYONOV.  For  some  it  is;  for  some  it  isn't.  It  all 
depends. 

Silence. 

ASYA.  Poor  Nina!  Poor  Vladimir!  And  how  he 
looked  forward  to  entering  the  Academy  next  fall  and 
going  to  St.  Petersburg  and  beginning  a  new  life !  Nina 
cries  and  cries  all  the  time ;  she  never  stops. 

SEMYONOV.  Yes,  it's  a  bad  business.  Take  care  that 
you  don't  have  to  be  weeping,  too. 

ASYA    [stopping  short,  frightened"].     I?     What  for? 

SEMYONOV.  Volodya  might  go  off  to  the  war,  and 
then  you'll  be  left  behind,  a  straw  widow. 

ASYA.     Volodya  isn't  in  the  army. 

SEMYONOV.  He'll  go  as  a  volunteer.  He  is  a  strong, 
healthy  chap.  All  are  going.  Why  shouldn't  he? 


26  War 

ASYA.     You  are  not  going? 

SEMYONOV.  I?  I,  too?  The  trouble  is,  I'd  get  no 
farther  than  the  first  hospital.  So  it's  hardly  worth 
while —  But  why  are  you  so  frightened? 

ASYA  [confused].  It's  impossible.  You  are  saying 
it  just  to  frighten  me. 

SEMYONOV.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  He  told  me  so  himself, 
yesterday.  And  I  think  it  would  be  a  fine  thing  for  him 
to  do.  Why,  even  Daue  is  going. 

ASYA    [impatiently].     What  do  I  care  about  Daue? 

SEMYONOV  [spitefully].  There  you  are.  You  are 
all  heroines  until  it  strikes  home.  It's  Daue,  and  none 
but  Daue,  that  I'm  sorry  for.  He  is  worth  all  the 
Volodyas  in  the  world  put  together.  If  Daue  should  be 
killed,  it  would  be  a  genuine  loss. 

ASYA.     You  are  not  sorry  for  the  others? 

SEMYONOV.  For  some  I  am;  for  others  I  am  not. 
For  your  Volodya,  for  example,  I  am  not.  Upon  my 
word,  I'm  not. 

ASYA  [indignantly].  Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself, 
Senya  ? 

SEMYONOV.  Why  should  I  be  ?  It  is  only  to  you  that 
he  is  so  precious.  But  for  humanity  to  be  minus  one 
Volodya  is  really  no  great  loss. 

ASYA.     Why,  he  is  your  friend. 

SEMYONOV  [darkly].     I  have  no  friends. 

ASYA.     So  much  the  worse  for  you. 

SEMYONOV.  Perhaps.  But  try  to  look  at  it  objec- 
tively. All  right;  Volodya  remains  at  home,  goes 
through  the  university,  becomes  an  instructor  in  mathe- 
matics, marries  you,  begets  children.  What  boredom ! 
Is  it  worth  being  born  into  the  world  for  that  ? 

ASYA.     But  to  be  killed  or  crippled  in  war,  it  is  ? 

SEMYONOV.  One  may  get  run  over  by  a  motor  or 
trolley.  War  at  least  is  life,  fight.  I'd  honestly  advise 
him  to  go. 


War  27 

ASYA  [her  whole  body  trembles,  as  she  fixes  him  with 
a  look  of  hatred].  Yes,  I  know;  it's  you  who  put  the 
idea  into  his  head,  you  who  advised  him  to  go.  It  was 
an  ugly,  mean  thing  to  do. 

SEMYONOV.  Why  was  it  mean?  Is  it  mean  to  advise 
a  man  to  go  and  defend  his  country? 

ASYA  [embarrassed],  I  didn't  mean  that  —  And 
you  —  [She  suddenly  covers  her  face  with  her  hands, 
and  goes  towards  the  door.] 

SEMYONOV.  Asya,  don't  run  away.  [Asya  pays  no 
attention  to  him,  and  goes  out.]  Well,  as  you  please. 
[He  shrugs  his  shoulders  and  absent-mindedly  pokes 
his  already  extinguished  cigarette  into  the  ash-tray.] 
Yes,  yes ;  that's  the  way. —  And  you,  Sidorenko,  you  are 
going,  too? 

SIDORENKO.     Yes,  sir. 

SEMYONOV.     Aren't  you  afraid? 

SIDORENKO  [smiling].  Of  course  I  am.  It's  no  joke. 
But  I  am  sorry  more  for  her  as  is  left  at  home. 

SEMYONOV.     At    home?     What    home? 

SIDORENKO.  My  home,  sir,  of  course.  I  have  a  wife, 
living  in  the  village,  and  of  course  she  is  a  foolish 
woman,  and  she  cries  and  carries  on.  Naturally,  I  feel 
sorry.  But,  just  the  same,  maybe  it's  all  right.  We'll 
get  back  all  right,  if  God  means  us  to.  Perhaps  it 
looks  so  awful  only  from  a  distance.  [He  slams  the 
trunk  lid  shut  and  carries  it  over  to  one  side.  The  bell 
rings  and  he  opens  the  door.  Daue  enters,  in  khaki, 
carrying  a  violin  case  in  his  hand.  He  crosses  into  the 
dining-room.] 

DAUE.  Good  morning,  Semyon  Nikolayevich.  You 
have  come  to  say  good-by  to  us,  too?  [Holding  out  his 
hand  to  him.]  That's  fine.  I  thought  I  shouldn't  have 
a  chance  to  see  you  again  before  I  left. 

SEMYONOV.     So  you  are  going? 

DAUE    [laying   the  violin   case   on   the   table,  with  a 


28  War 

flight   shrug].     What's    to    be    done?     It's    got   to    be. 

SEMYONOV.  But  you  were  going  to  leave  the  army, 
weren't  you? 

DAUE.  Oh,  yes,  I  was.  It's  too  late  now,  though. 
Fate  has  decreed  otherwise,  it  seems.  [He  laughs. ,] 
Written  in  the  Book  of  Life,  I  suppose;  or  is  it  in  the 
Book  of  Death?  —  Besides,  I'd  feel  ashamed  —  every- 
body going,  and  I  staying  here  and  scraping  on  the 
fiddle.  No;  if  we  are  to  die,  then  let's  die  together. 
[With  a  sigh.']  Yes,  I  guess  I  shall  have  to  give 
it  up.  Here  is  my  violin.  I've  brought  it  here  to 
ask  Nina  Petrovna  to  keep  it  for  me.  It's  a  fine  instru- 
ment, very  expensive.  Maybe  I  won't  get  killed,  after 
all. 

SEMYONOV.     You  won't;  I  am  sure  of  it. 

DAUE.  We  shall  see.  And  if  they  do  kill  me  —  well, 
what  of  it?  There'll  be  one  poor  fiddler  the  less  in  the 
world.  One  must  die  some  time,  anyway.  I'd  only  like 
to  make  sure  about  the  violin.  It  would  be  a  pity  to 
lose  it. 

SEMYONOV.  Don't  worry  about  the  violin.  It  will 
be  taken  good  care  of  here. 

DAUE.  Thank  you.  I  rely  on  Nina  Petrovna.  She 
loves  music  herself,  and  she  has  always  treated  me  well. 

Vladimir  comes  in,  also  in  khaki,  looking  sad  and  pre- 
occupied. He  forgets  that  he  has  not  yet  seen  Sem- 
yonov,  and  greets  only  Daue. 

VLADIMIR.  Good  morning,  Daue.  Well  ?  —  I  sent 
for  you,  but  you  weren't  at  home. 

DAUE.  I  have  been  running  about  the  city  the  whole 
morning,  trying  to  get  my  affairs  in  order.  Thank  God, 
it's  all  settled  now.  I  sold  my  piano  to  Kokhanovsky. 
The  only  thing  left  is  the  violin. 

VLADIMIR    [absent-mindedly].     Oh,  the   violin.      [He 


War  29 

puts  out  his  hand  towards  the  violin,  but  the  next  moment 
forgets  about  it].  What  a  crowd  there  was  in  the  church 
today ! 

SEMYONOV.  Good  morning,  Vladimir  Aleksandro- 
vich. 

VLADIMIR.  Oh,  excuse  me;  I  didn't  see  you.  Glad 
to  see  you!  Thanks  very  much  for  coming.  [Recol- 
lecting himself.]  But  why  don't  you  come  into  the  next 
room,  gentlemen?  They  are  all  in  there  —  the  Prince 
is  here. 

DAUE.     The  Prince  has  come,  too? 

VLADIMIR  [with  an  exaggerated  air  of  indifference], 
Yes;  he  has  come  to  see  us  off.  Come,  gentlemen. 
[Smiling  faintly.]  I  see  you  are  holding  on  to  your 
violin  and  won't  let  go  of  it. 

DAUE.  I  want  to  ask  Nina  to  put  it  away  for  me 
in  some  safe  place.  It's  a  very  good  one,  and  very 
expensive,  you  know.  It  would  be  a  pity  for  something 
to  happen  to  it. 

VLADIMIR  [without  hearing  -what  he  has  said].  Yes,  it 
would  be  a  pity.  Well,  then,  come  in.  [He  turns 
round  abruptly,  and  goes  out  without  waiting  for  them. 
Semyonov  and  Daue  go  out  after  him.  There  is  a  pause. 
Katya  enters,  and  places  beer  and  wine  on  the  table. 
Asya  and  Volodya  come  in  quickly.  On  seeing  Katya, 
they  stop  short.] 

VOLODYA.  Please  leave  the  room  for  a  moment, 
Katya. 

KATYA.  Yes,  sir.  [She  goes  out  through  the  ante- 
chamber, whispering  something  to  Sidorenko  on  the 
way,  and  Sidorenko  passes  out  after  her.] 

VOLODYA  [following  them  with  his  eyes  until  they  are 
gone].  I  have  been  meaning  to  have  a  talk  with  you 
for  some  time.  Of  course  you,  as  a  woman,  can't  un- 
derstand, but,  really,  a  fellow  is  ashamed  to  stay  at 
home  when  all  are  leaving. 


30  War 

ASYA  [suppressing  her  tears].  Not  all.  There  is 
Senya.  He  is  staying  behind,  and  so  is  the  Prince. 

VOLODYA.  Senya!  Senya  is  an  invalid.  And  as 
for  the  Prince,  he  is  a  well-fed  animal  who  has  had 
a  disappointment  in  love  and  hugs  his  tragedy,  which 
is  dearer  to  him  than  the  whole  world.  Asya,  you 
won't  keep  me  from  doing  what  I  feel  I  ought  to  do, 
will  you? 

ASYA  [through  her  tears'].     How  can  I  keep  you? 

VOLODYA  [frightened].  Now  there!  What  are  you 
crying  about,  Asya?  Dear  me!  Look  at  you  now! 
Why,  it  isn't  settled  yet!  It's  by  no  means  certain  that 
I  am  going.  Maybe  I  won't  go.  So  far  it's  nothing  but 
an  idea. 

ASYA  [incredulously].  You  are  only  saying  that  to 
cheer  me,  but  I  feel  that —  [She  breaks  into  sobs.] 

VOLODYA.  Asya!  aren't  you  ashamed?  I  give  you 
my  word  of  honor,  I  haven't  made  up  my  mind  yet. 

ASYA  [with  a  glimmer  of  hope].  Are  you  telling  me 
the  truth? 

VOLODYA.  Of  course  I  am  telling  you  the  truth. 
Upon  my  word,  Asya !  Don't  cry ;  it's  bad  enough  as 
it  is. 

ASYA.  I  won't,  any  more.  [Smiling  through  her 
tears.]  It's  Senya's  fault.  He  frightened  me.  I  know 
it's  stupid.  Don't  be  angry  with  me. 

VOLODYA.  I  couldn't  be  angry  with  you  if  I  tried, 
Asya. 

ASYA.  Couldn't  you?  Then  it's  all  right;  then  I'll 
get  over  it  soon.  You  see,  it's  all  gone  already.  I  am 
perfectly  calm  again.  [She  laughs  through  her  tears.] 
I  am  a  goose. 

VOLODYA.  No ;  you  are  not  a  goose  —  you  are  a  dear. 
[He  takes  her  hands  and  puts  them  on  his  shoulders.] 
Asya,  suppose  I  really  went  to  the  war  —  would  you  — 
would  you  in  that  case  agree  —  h'm  —  to  be  my  wife  ? 


War  31 

ASYA.  What?  [She  regards  him  with  tenderness, 
then  suddenly  kisses  him  and  runs  away.] 

VOLODYA.  Asya!  [Asya  runs  into  Olga  in  the  door- 
way.] 

OLGA  [distracted,  her  face  discolored  from  weeping], 
Where  are  you  going,  Asya?  We'll  have  lunch  soon. 
Don't  go.  They  are  leaving  us,  Asya.  It's  terrible, 
isn't  it? 

ASYA  [not  yet  recovered  from  the  excitement  of  the 
kiss].  Yes  —  I'll  be  back  soon.  [She  disappears 
through  the  door.  Volodya  sits  down  at  the  window 
and  lights  a  cigarette.  Olga  goes  over  to  him  and  gently 
strokes  his  hair.] 

OLGA.  Ah,  Volodya,  Volodya!  What  is  this  war 
for  ?  Can  you  tell  me  ?  What  is  it  for  ?  I  don't  under- 
stand it.  Here  we  were,  living  quietly,  and  all  of  a 
sudden !  —  I  am  so  sorry  for  Nina. 

Volodya  takes  her  hand  and  kisses  it,  without  reply- 
ing. 

OLGA.  But  maybe  nothing  will  happen,  after  all? 
Eh,  Volodya? 

VOLODYA.  How  so?  The  war  has  begun  already, 
Mamma. 

OLGA.  I  know  it  has.  But  maybe  they'll  settle  it 
somehow  over  there.  They'll  just  take  a  look  at  each 
other,  and  they'll  say,  "  We  are  fools  —  that's  what  we 
are ! "  Then  they'll  break  up  and  go  each  his  own 
way. 

VOLODYA  [involuntarily  smiling].  Things  don't  hap- 
pen that  way,  Mamma. 

OLGA.  But  it's  such  a  pity,  Volodya.  It's  raining 
and  wet  outside.  They  might  all  catch  cold  there.  God 
forbid !  I  think  the  best  thing  would  be  if  they  j  ust 
dropped  the  whole  business  and  went  home. 

VOLODYA.     It's  not  so  simple. 

OLGA.     But  it  would  be  better  if  it  were  simple. 


32  War 

VOLODYA.  Oh,  better !  That  doesn't  count.  Mother, 
would  you  let  me  go? 

OLGA.     Where  ? 

VOLODYA.     There, —  to  the  war. 

OLGA  [angrily].  What!  You  too?  Aren't  there 
enough  ?  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  Do  you  imagine 
I'll  let  you  go? 

VOLODYA.     I'll  go  of  myself. 

OLGA  [indignantly  throwing  up  her  hands].  Don't 
talk  nonsense,  please.  My  heart  is  sore  enough  as  it 
is.  However  such  a  thing  could  have  come  into  your 
head!  Just  you  wait;  I'll  tell  Asya.  She'll  give  it  to 
you.  for  talking  such  rubbish.  [Volodya  laughs.]  He 
laughs!  The  idea!  He  thinks  it's  funny, —  a  matter 
to  laugh  about.  Piotr  says  that  if  he  were  younger  he'd 
go,  too.  What  has  come  over  you,  for  heaven's  sake? 
You  all  act  as  though  you  had  gone  crazy.  [She  goes  to 
the  table,  aggrieved.]  You'd  better  go  and  tell  them  to 
come  to  lunch.  Vladimir  has  to  leave  soon,  and  if  they 
don't  hurry,  he'll  have  to  go  away  hungry. 

Volodya  goes  out,  and  soon  returns  with  Piotr,  the 
Prince,  Daue  and  Semyonov. 

OLGA.  Sit  down,  gentlemen.  Sit  down,  Daue,  my 
boy.  I  have  made  you  your  favorite  dish, —  cutlets. 
Eat  for  your  health.  No  one  will  make  cutlets  for  you 
out  there.  And  then  you  will  remember  me. 

DAUE.     I  will  not  forget  you,  even  without  the  cutlets. 

PIOTR.     Where  are  Nina  and  Vladimir? 

SEMYONOV.     They'll  be  here  in  a  moment. 

OLGA.  Eat;  help  yourselves,  please.  Will  you  have 
some  whiskey,  Prince?  —  Piotr? 

Nina  and  Vladimir  come  in,  Nina's  eyes  are  red 
from  crying. 

OLGA.     Sit  down  here,  Ninochka, —  Vladimir! 


War  33 

PIOTR  [picking  up  a  flask].  Vladimir,  will  you  have 
a  drink?  —  Will  you,  Daue? 

DAUB.     I  think  I  will  —  although  — 

Asya  enters  quietly  and  takes  a  seat  at  the  end  of 
the  table  farthest  removed  from  Folodya.  She  tries 
not  to  look  at  him. 

OLGA.  Drink,  drink.  It  will  keep  you  in  good  con- 
dition for  the  journey.  Else  you  might  catch  cold  — 
God  forbid.  It's  a  long  way. 

PRINCE.     Are  you  going  on  horseback? 

DAUE.     Yes,  to  the  station. 

PRINCE.     When  does  the  train  leave? 

DAUE.  They  say  at  six  o'clock.  But  I  don't  believe 
it'll  start  till  much  later. 

PRINCE  [making  a  conscious  effort  to  keep  up  the  con- 
versation]. Strange,  a  large  town  like  ours,  with  sol- 
diers always  stationed  here,  and  no  railroad  in  case  of 
emergency.  Such  a  state  of  things  can  exist  only  in 
Russia. 

SEMYONOV.  I  know  a  city,  one  of  our  government 
capitals,  with  a  population  of  more  than  one  hundred 
thousand,  and  the  nearest  railway  station  is  about  sixty 
miles  away. 

PIOTR.  They  are  going  to  begin  to  build  a  railroad 
here  next  year.  The  engineers  have  already  come  to 
make  the  preliminary  survey.  Yes,  nowadays  things 
are  different.  In  1877,  when  we  marched  to  the  fron- 
tier— 

OLGA.     Now,  now!     We  have  heard  the  story  before. 

PIOTR.  Upon  my  word!  What  does  it  mean?  Why 
can't  I  tell  — 

Nina  begins  to  weep  quietly;  Vladimir  throws  a  quick 
glance  at  her,  and  hangs  his  head. 

OLGA.     Ninochka,   don't!     It's    enough —     Why    do 


34  War 

you  go  on  that  way,  really?     You  are  only  upsetting 
Vladimir. 

NINA  [hurriedly].  It's  nothing  —  it's  only  —  nerv- 
ousness. [With  a  queer,  nervous  smile.]  Yet  I  can't 
help  thinking  it's  awfully  funny.  Really,  just  funny. 

Everyone  tries  to  avoid  looking  at  her,  pretending  to 
be  occupied  with  preparations  for  the  journey.  Vladi- 
mir hangs  his  head  still  lower. 

OLGA  [cautiously].  Shall  I  give  you  some  medicine 
drops  ? 

NINA  [starting].  What  for?  You  think  I  am  get- 
ting hysterical,  Mamma?  No;  it's  not  that.  It  really 
struck  me  as  funny  all  of  a  sudden,  that's  all.  Look  at 
Daue,  for  example. —  Where  is  your  violin,  Daue? 

DAUE.     I  just  meant  to  ask  you  to  — 

NINA  [not  listening  to  him].  Can't  you  see  what  a 
terrible  comedy  it  is?  Somewhere,  in  some  place,  there 
is  a  Wilhelm,  a  Germany.  You  have  never  seen  Ger- 
many, Daue.  Neither  have  I.  And  yet  we  are  all  cry- 
ing, taking  leave  of  each  other,  breaking  up  our  lives 
completely.  Daue  is  going  to  the  war!  Isn't  it  ridicu- 
lous ?  Do  you  want  to  go  to  war,  Daue  ? 

DAUE.  It  isn't  a  question  of  my  personal  wish,  Nina 
Petrovna.  Everybody  is  going. 

NINA  [with  hectic  irritation].  Everybody!  What 
do  you  care  about  everybody  ? 

OLGA.  Don't  you  think  you  had  better  take  some 
valerian,  Ninochka?  I'll  bring  it  to  you;  will  you  take 
it, —  yes  ? 

NINA  [with  growing  unnatural  excitement].  Oh, 
Mamma,  let  me  alone!  What  do  you  want  of  me?  I 
want  to  say  — 

OLGA    [with   tears],     Ninochka,  my  dear  girl! 

NINA  [pushing  her  mother  aside],  I  have  my  life 
to  live.  I  don't  interfere  with  anybody.  I  don't  harm 


War  35 

anybody.  It  may  be  a  small,  insignificant  life  I  am 
leading,  but  I  don't  want  anybody  to  mar  and  destroy 
it.  No,  I  don't! 

OLGA  [patting  her  vigorously  on  the  head].  But 
what's  to  be  done,  Ninochka?  You  are  not  the  only 
one.  Everybody  is  hit  by  it  in  the  same  way  as  you. 

NINA.  Is  it  my  fault?  That's  their  business.  I 
don't  want  to  have  my  life  sacrificed  to  anybody. 

PIOTR  [quite  unexpectedly].  Only  people  without  a 
country  can  speak  that  way,  Nina! 

OLGA.  Oh,  leave  her  alone,  Piotr.  As  if  you  don't 
see  that  — 

PIOTR  [without  listening,  and  not  understanding]. 
Only  Russia's  enemies  can  speak  that  way.  [Striking 
the  table  with  his  fist.]  In  such  a  time  as  this  we  have 
no  right  to  speak  about  our  own  personal  life.  We  have 
no  right  to  argue  and  reason. 

OLGA.     Piotr!  Piotr! 

PIOTR.  We  must  all  go  and  die,  and  we  mustn't 
reason  about  it.  I  am  an  old  man,  but,  should  it  become 
necessary,  I  will  go  without  question,  because  the  whole 
of  Russia,  my  country,  needs  my  life.  What  are  you  in 
comparison  to  the  destiny  of  Russia?  I  will  not  permit 
it.  No  one  in  my  house  shall  dare  to  — 

OLGA   [shouting],     Piotr! 

NINA  fin  a  subdued  voice],  I  know,  I  know,  Papa 
dear.  [She  weeps.] 

OLGA  [vexed  and  in  tears].  Ah,  Piotr,  you  always 
jump  in  like  that!  Good  heavens! 

PIOTR  [embarrassed].  What  did  I  do?  I  am  only 
saying  that  —  in  a  time  such  as  Russia  is  going  through 
now  — 

OLGA.  Oh,  go  along;  stop  it.  Ninochka,  calm  your- 
self. You  mustn't  go  on  that  way. —  Vladimir ! 

NINA.  I'll  soon  get  over  it —  I  only  just —  Don't 
pay  any  attention  to  me.  It  will  pass  away. 


36  War 

A  long,  oppressive  silence  follows. 

SEMYONOV  [with  studied  simplicity].  Will  you  have 
some  beer,  Daue  ? 

OLGA.  Will  anyone  have  tea?  I  have  had  the 
samovar  prepared.  Prince,  will  you  have  a  glass  of  tea  ? 

PRINCE.     No,  thank  you. 

There  is  silence  again.  Suddenly  Nina  rises  and 
walks  out.  All  remain  silent,  following  her  with  their 
eyes. 

OLGA.  You  had  better  go  to  her,  Vladimir.  Go  on, 
my  dear. 

VLADIMIR.     Yes. —  Excuse  me,  gentlemen. 
SEMYONOV.     Certainly,  certainly. 

Vladimir  gets  up  and  leaves  quickly. 

PRINCE  [after  a  pause].  Yes,  it's  hard  for  those  who 
have  near  ones. 

DAUE  [in  an  unnaturally  buoyant  voice].  I  am  all 
right.  I  have  nothing  except  my  violin.  If  I  get  killed, 
it  won't  play  by  itself.  [He  laughs.] 

SEMYONOV  [with  an  artificial  smile].     Yes,  that's  so. 

SIDORENKO  [appearing  in  the  door].  The  quarter- 
master has  just  run  in,  sir,  and  said  that  the  commander 
has  arrived. 

DAUE.  Already?  [He  rises  quickly  and  looks  at  the 
clock.]  Yes,  it's  really  time.  We  are  late.  I'll  have 
to  hurry. 

All  get  up  and  make  hurried  motions,  not  knowing 
what  to  do. 

DAUE.     Yes  —  so  we  are  off.     [He  hesitates  a  mo- 


War  37 

ment,  smiles  awkwardly,  then,  with  a  resolute  shake  of 
the  head.]  Well  —  now —  Goodby,  Olga  Petrovna. 
Thank  you  for  everything.  [He  kisses  her  hand.] 

OLGA  [with  tears,  kissing  him  on  the  forehead]. 
Goodby,  my  boy,  goodby.  God  grant  that  you  return 
home  alive  and  sound. 

DAUE  [with  a  show  of  boldness].  We'll  get  back, 
with  the  help  of  God.  Not  everybody  is  going  to  be 
killed,  you  know.  Goodby,  Piotr  Ivanovich.  Let  me 
kiss  you  —  maybe  we'll  never  see  each  other  again. 

PIOTR.     Now,  now!     Why  goodby?     Goodby! 

DAUE.  All  right,  goodby.  Everything  is  possible. 
—  Well,  Volodya,  are  you  going  to  the  station  with  us  ? 
That's  good.  Goodby,  Prince.  I  wish  you  all  the  very 
best  for  yourselves.  And  now —  Where  is  Nina 
Petrovna?  I  suppose  she  has  no  time  to  think  of  me 
now.  Tell  her  goodby  for  me,  and  give  her  my  thanks 
for  everything.  Let  her  remember  sometimes  how  we 
made  music  together.  I  have  been  meaning  to  ask  her 
to  take  care  of  my  violin.  It's  a  very  good,  very  ex- 
pensive violin. 

OLGA.  Don't  worry  about  the  violin,  Daue.  We'll 
keep  it  safe  for  you.  You  just  come  back  safe  and 
sound.  You  are  going  to  perform  some  fine  concerts 
for  us  still  with  Ninochka,  I  am  sure. 

DAUE  [with  a  faint  smile].  Hardly.  It's  all  over 
with  my  music.  [Throwing  up  his  hands.]  Oh,  well, 
it's  all  the  same.  I  haven't  said  goodby  to  you  yet, 
Aleksandra  Ivanovna.  I  wish  you  a  happy  life,  Miss 
Aleksandra. 

Asya  remains  silent,  weeping. 

» 

DAUE.  What  else  was  it  I  wanted  to  say?  No  — 
nothing.  Goodby  once  more. 

ALL.     Goodby!     Goodby!     A  safe  return! 


38  War 

DAUE  [stopping  abruptly  at  the  door,  with  an  embar- 
rassed smile].  You  won't  laugh  at  me,  will  you?  — 
I'd  like  to  take  another  look  at  it.  [He  opens  the  violin 
case,  but  instantly  slaps  it  shut  again.  Flinging  up  his 
hands.]  Oh,  nonsense.  Goodby  for  good  now.  Thank 
you  all. 

He  walks  out  rapidly,  followed  by  the  others,  and  the 
dining-room  is  emptied.  Outside  on  the  steps  are 
heard  the  calls  of,  "Goodby!  Goodby!  Come  back 
soon !  "  Then  the  door  falls  to  with  a  bang,  and  there 
is  silence.  Only  Sidorenko  remains  on  the  stage,  in  the 
hallway. 

There  is  a  pause.  Vladimir  enters  hurriedly  and 
passes  directly  to  the  hallway.  Sidorenko  hands  him  his 
cap  and  hangs  his  sword  on  him.  Vladimir  takes  a  step 
toward  the  door,  stops,  stands  still  for  a  moment,  then 
quickly  returns  to  the  dining-room.  Nina  rushes  in  and, 
silently,  without  tears,  flings  herself  on  his  neck. 

VLADIMIR.  Nina !  Nina !  My  darling !  My  own ! 
[He  repeatedly  strokes  her  head  and  kisses  her  hair,  and 
then  looks  about  helplessly.  Asya  quietly  re-enters  the 
room  and  rushes  towards  them.] 

VLADIMIR.     Asya,  help !  —  Ninochka ! 

Asya  holds  Nina  back.  Vladimir  tears  himself  away 
from  her  embrace  and  goes  out  quickly,  almost  running. 
Nina  pushes  Asya  aside  and,  with  a  piercing  shriek, 
flings  herself  after  her  husband.  She  staggers  and 
drops  into  the  arms  of  Asya  and  Sidorenko. 


CURTAIN 


ACT   III 

The  time  is  two  months  later. 

The  scenery  is  the  same  as  in  the  second  act.  It  is 
evening.  The  lamp  is  burning.  The  samovar  is  on  the 
table.  Olga  Petrovna  is  sitting  at  the  table  near  the 
samovar;  on  the  opposite  side,  Piotr  Ivanovich  with 
his  own  special  tea  cup  and  a  newspaper  before  him. 
Asya  is  giving  tea  to  a  little  boy  and  a  little  girl,  the 
children  of  an  officer  killed  in  the  war.  Semyonov  is 
sitting  at  a  small  table  aside  from  the  rest,  smoking. 
On  the  wall  is  a  large  war  map  with  tiny  flags  of  differ- 
ent colors  stuck  into  it. 

ASYA.     Sonya,  do  you  want  some  more? 

SONYA  [quietly].     Thank  you. 

ASYA.  Kolya,  you  mustn't  rattle  the  spoon.  Drink 
nicely. 

OLGA.     Sonya,  how   is   your  mother?     Is   she  well? 

SONYA.     Yes,  thank  you. 

KOLYA  [gleefully].  Mamma  cries  all  the  time.  Her 
eyes  are  we-ed,  we-ed,  like  a  lobster's. 

ASYA  [with  a  faint  smile].  Lobsters'  eyes  aren't 
red. 

KOLYA.     Aren't  they?     What  color  are  they? 

ASYA.     Black. 

KOLYA.     Black?     Why  are  they  black? 

ASYA.     Because  God  made  them  so. 

KOLYA.     Why  did  God  make  them  so? 

ASYA  [patiently].  Because  it's  the  way  He  thought 
they  ought  to  be. 

39 


40  War 

KOLYA.     Ought  to  be? 
ASYA.     Yes,  ought  to  be. 

KOLYA.     Our  Jerry  has  yellow  eyes,  like  a  cat's. 
ASYA.     All  right,  drink  your  tea,  drink  —  Sonyechka, 
will  you  have  some  jam? 
SONYA.     Thank  you. 

There  is  a  silence. 

OLGA.  It's  a  month  today  since  Volodya  left.  I 
wonder  where  he  is  now,  poor  boy? 

Another  silence  ensues.  Then  the  bell  rings.  Sem- 
yonov  quietly  steps  into  the  antechamber  and  opens  the 
door.  The  Prince  enters,  takes  off  his  overcoat,  and 
walks  into  the  dining-room. 

PIOTR.     Ah,  the  Prince ! 

PRINCE  [he  goes  round  the  table  and  shakes  hands 
•with  everyone;  when  he  comes  near  Sonya,  she  jumps 
off  the  chair  and  makes  a  courtesy].  It's  so  dreary 
everywhere  one  doesn't  know  where  to  go  to  or  what  to 
do  with  oneself.  I  hope  you  are  not  mortally  sick  of 
me,  Olga  Petrovna. 

OLGA.  How,  Prince,  what  makes  you  say  that?  Of 
course  we  are  not.  We  are  always  very  glad  to  see 
you.  Ninochka  is  in  better  spirits,  too,  when  you  are 
around.  She  is  so  dejected,  poor  girl. 

PRINCE.     Is  she  well? 

OLGA.  How  can  she  be  well  when  she  doesn't  eat 
anything?  She  keeps  brooding  and  brooding.  Will 
you  have  a  glass  of  tea,  Prince? 

PRINCE.  Yes,  thank  you.  [He  takes  the  glass. ~\ 
It's  cold  and  cloudy  outside.  The  city  is  all  dead,  no 
life  at  all.  Have  you  had  word  from  your  people 
recently  ? 


War  41 

OLGA.  There  was  a  letter  from  Vladimir  yesterday, 
but  nothing  from  Volodya  for  a  whole  week.  He  used 
to  write  every  day.  Then  the  letters  suddenly  stopped. 
Asya  is  beginning  to  worry  fearfully,  and  I  am  terribly 
worried  too.  Something  might  happen,  God  forbid.  It 
doesn't  take  long  to  catch  cold.  Piotr  Ivanovich  reads 
the  papers  every  day,  but  I  am  afraid  to.  When  I  look 
at  a  newspaper  and  see  all  the  killed  and  wounded  and 
lost  —  lost  with  no  trace  of  them  left  behind  —  I  feel 
as  if  I  had  been  knocked  in  the  head  with  a  club. 

PRINCE.  I  think  if  anything  happened  they  would 
let  you  know.  And  as  to  your  not  getting  any  letters, 
that's  not  surprising. 

PIOTR.  They  have  nothing  to  write;  so  they  don't 
write.  We  here  have  nothing  to  do;  but  out  there  they 
have  no  time  for  trifles  —  they  have  work  to  do. 

OLGA.  I  know,  Piotr,  but  yet  —  there  is  Asya  —  she 
is  worrying  herself  to  death.  I  am  not  speaking  about 
myself,  though  I  am  so,  so  sorry  for  them.  Piotr  Ivan- 
ovich is  just  trying  to  put  up  a  bold  front.  Don't  let 
him  fool  you.  I  know  he  can't  sleep  nights.  He  keeps 
pacing  the  room  to  and  fro,  to  and  fro  like  a  pendulum. 

PIOTR  [angrily].  It's  insomnia,  that's  all.  You 
know  very  well  I  always  suffer  from  insomnia  at  this 
time  of  the  year. 

OLGA.  Don't  be  telling  stories,  Piotr.  Insomnia? 
Nonsense ! 

Silence. 

PRINCE.  You  are  still  taking  care  of  the  children, 
Aleksandra  Ivanovich? 

ASYA   [quietly].     Yes. 

OLGA.  Taking  care  of  the  children!  She  should 
have  been  taking  care  of  her  own  by  this  time.  Upon 
my  word,  I  cannot  understand  you!  Are  you  crazy, 
all  of  you,  or  what!  What  nonsense  to  marry  and  then 


42  War 

part!  Neither  a  wife  nor  a  widow!  The  idiocy  of  it 
passes  my  comprehension. 

ASYA.     I  wanted  it  myself,  Mother. 

KOLYA  [in  a  ringing  voice].  My  father  got  killed  in 
the  war.  The  Germans  killed  him. 

PRINCE  [startled  by  the  unexpectedness  of  the  child's 
remark].  What? 

ASYA  [hurriedly].  Drink  your  tea,  Kolya;  drink, 
it'll  get  cold. 

KOLYA.     I  am  drinking. 

ASYA.     Go  on,  go  on,  drink. 

There  is  silence,  during  which  Nina  comes  in  quietly. 

NINA.  The  Prince?  I  didn't  know  you  were  here. 
Why  didn't  you  let  me  know,  Mamma? 

PRINCE.     I've  just  come. 

NINA  [seating  herself  at  the  table  opposite  the 
Prince].  What  a  long,  dreary  day  this  has  been. 

OLGA.  Don't  think  so  much  about  it  and  it  won't 
seem  so  long  to  you. 

NINA  [with  a  faint  smile].  I  should  be  glad  not  to 
think,  Mamma,  but  it  thinks  itself. 

Silence. 

PRINCE.  I  have  a  piece  of  sad  news.  Daue's  body 
arrived  at  the  station  today. 

At  this  remark  all  raise  their  heads.  Olga  Petrovna 
wipes  her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief.  Piotr  Ivanovich 
frowns  and  buries  his  face  in  the  newspaper.  There  is 
silence. 

NINA.  Poor  Daue!  An  end  to  all  his  music  now. 
You  remember  how  he  had  set  his  heart  on  going  to 
Petrograd  to  study,  and  how  he  had  made  all  his  plans 
for  giving  up  the  army  and  following  his  great  ambition? 

PRINCE.     Fate  decreed  differently,  it  seems. 


War  43 


SEMYONOV   [with  heat].     What  Fate?     A  monstrous 
insane  outrage,  not  Fate  ! 
PRINCE.     Yes  —  of  course. 

Silence. 

OLOA.  You  remember,  Asya,  how  he  came  back  and 
wanted  to  take  a  last  look  at  his  violin?  "  If  I  get 
killed,"  he  said,  "  the  violin  won't  play  by  itself." 
[Sobbing.]  God!  God!  What  is  happening  in  the 
world  ! 

SEMYONOV.  A  lot  of  stupidity  and  wickedness  is  hap- 
pening. 

Silence. 

NINA.  We  knew  a  week  ago  that  Daue  had  been 
killed.  But  what  does  it  mean  —  "Killed?"  It's  so 
hard  to  grasp  the  significance  of  it.  Only  now  I  seem 
to  realize  what  it  implies  when  I  know  that  he  has  been 
brought  here,  that  somewhere  at  the  station  there  is  a 
car  and  that  in  a  coffin  Daue  is  lying  —  that  he  is  lying 
there  and  doesn't  know  we  are  talking  about  him.  It's 
so  heart-rending  !  How  terrible  war  is  ! 

PRINCE.  Yes,  it  is  terrible.  And  yet  there  is  a  great 
deal  of  tragic  beauty  in  it.  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but 
I  feel  drawn  to  the  war  myself;  something  pulls  me  to  it. 

SEMYONOV  [in  an  undertone].  It  seems  to  be  a  very 
mild  form  of  attraction. 

ASYA  [reprovingly].     Senya! 

PRINCE  [who  has  not  caught  Semyonov's  remark], 
What's  that,  Semyon  Nikolayevich  ? 

SEMYONOV.     Nothing,  nothing. 

PRINCE.  What  is  life  here?  It  is  not  even  a  game; 
it  is  just  a  long-drawn-out  agony.  We  don't  live  here; 
we  just  exist.  All  our  interests,  our  little  troubles  and 
preoccupations,  are  so  trivial,  so  insignificant.  Our  ac- 


44  War 

tions  are  commonplace.  But  there,  face  to  face  with 
death,  the  everyday  shell  drops  off,  and  man  becomes 
that  which  he  ought  always  to  be  —  the  tragic  bearer  of 
heroic  ideas. 

SEMYONOV  [to  himself].     He's  going  it  hard. 

Asya  shakes  her  head  at  him  reproachfully. 

PRINCE  [contemplatively].  It  may  seem  strange, 
perhaps,  but  I  honestly  envy  those  who  are  in  the  thick 
of  it.  There  is  movement,  fight,  real  life  out  there. 

NINA.  You  say  you  envy  them,  but  my  heart  bleeds 
for  them.  Hungry,  cold,  always  facing  death  and  pain 
and  misery ;  what  sort  of  life  can  it  be !  It  is  one  con- 
tinuous agony,  not  life.  How  many  killed,  how  many 
maimed,  how  many  widows  and  orphans,  how  much 
wretchedness  and  suffering!  And  all  this  on  account 
of  one  man's  whim.  What  an  injustice!  What  an 
atrocity!  No,  my  whole  being  revolts  against  this 
butchery. 

Silence. 

NINA  [disconsolately].  It's  so  hard!  My  God,  it's 
so  hard !  I  don't  know  —  maybe  I  am  a  silly  woman, 
but  I  began  to  sew  underwear  for  the  wounded  soldiers. 
I  worked  till  I  got  so  tired  I  couldn't  work  any  more. 
And  suddenly  I  had  the  feeling  that  all  that  didn't  make 
out  my  life;  it  didn't  represent  me;  it  didn't  make  me 
forget  my  own  cares  and  experiences.  I  mean  to  take 
up  work  in  the  hospital.  I'll  try.  I  don't  know  if  my 
nerves  will  stand  it.  And  so  I  drift  from  one  thing  to 
another,  torn  out  of  my  element.  No  one  needs  me; 
I  am  good  for  nothing.  The  most  terrible  thing  is  that 
I  hardly  ever  get  any  letters,  and  when  I  do  get  them, 
they  have  been  so  long  coming  that  they  have  lost  almost 
all  significance.  I  read,  see  the  familiar  hand,  and 


War  45 

think:  But  this  letter  was  written  twelve  days  ago. 
Maybe —  [Her  voice  quivers.] 

PIOTR.  Cowardice  and  nothing  else.  It's  painful  to 
listen  to.  The  wife  of  a  Russian  officer  ought  to  take  it 
differently. 

NINA  [with  a  mournful,  submissive  smile].  Ah, 
Papa,  what  sort  of  officer's  wife  am  I?  I  am  a  wife, 
that's  all  —  an  insignificant  woman  whose  husband  is  all 
in  all  to  her. 

PIOTR  [shrugging  his  shoulders].  There!  There! 
There!  And  I  think  — 

OLOA.     Piotr ! 

PIOTR.  But  if  I  can't  listen  to  these  everlasting 
whinings  and  lamentations !  [Drawing  up  his  shoul- 
ders.] Why,  the  idea!  A  man  is  defending  his  coun- 
try, is  fulfilling  his  sacred  duty ;  and  what  does  his  wife 
think  about  ?  Nothing  but  how  to  take  away  his  courage 
and  honor.  She  wants  to  keep  him  in  the  nursery  and 
bedroom. 

OLOA.     Piotr ! 

NINA.     I  don't  want  that,  you  know  it,  Papa. 

PIOTR  [brushing  the  remark  aside,  and  rising  and 
flourishing  the  newspaper  in  the  air,  without  addressing 
anyone  in  particular],  I  can  imagine  the  letters  she 
writes  to  him.  I'll  tell  you  plainly  that  if  I  had  had  a 
wife  like  that  in  my  time  I'd  simply  have  turned  her  out 
of  the  house.  Yes,  I'd  have  turned  her  out  —  turned 
her  out.  [To  Olga.]  Oh,  let  me  alone.  I  say  it  be- 
cause it's  the  way  I  feel  about  it.  It's  abominable! 

He  shrugs  his  shoulders,  waves  the  newspaper  and 
goes  out.  There  is  silence.  Nina  weeps  quietly.  The 
children  look  with  fright  from  one  to  another.  The 
Prince  remains  sitting  with  downcast  eyes.  Semyonov 
puffs  vigorously  at  his  cigarette. 

OLOA.     There.     It's    always    that   way.     Don't   cry, 


46  War 

Ninochka.  Don't  you  know  your  father?  He  himself 
suffers,  more  than  anybody  else,  but  he  carries  on  that 
way  just  to  relieve  his  feelings  a  little.  It  seems  to  do 
him  good. 

NINA.     I  know,  Mamma  dear. 

ASYA.     Well,  children,  have  you  had  enough? 

SONYA.     Yes,  thank  you. 

ASYA.  Come,  then,  I'll  take  you  home.  It's  time  to 
go  to  bed.  Your  mother  will  be  worrying  about  you. 
Senya,  will  you  go  with  us? 

SEMYONOV  [rising].     Yes,  of  course  I  will. 

ASYA.     Say  goodby  now,  children,  and  come. 

Sonya  and  Kolya  walk  up  to  each  one  in  turn,  Sonya 
making  a  pretty  courtesy,  and  Kolya  awkwardly  scrap- 
ing his  feet.  Olga  Petrovna  kisses  them.  Then  Asya 
takes  them  into  the  anteroom,  puts  on  their  hats  and 
coats,  and  they  go  out,  followed  by  Semyonov. 

OLGA.  Poor  children.  They  are  orphans  now  — 
and  with  no  means  of  support,  either.  His  salary  was 
all  they  had  to  live  on.  She'll  get  a  pension.  But  it's 
not  like  having  a  father. 

PRINCE.  Why  does  Aleksandra  Ivanovna  look  after 
them  ? 

OLGA.  Out  of  pity.  She  has  a  good  heart,  that's 
why.  The  mother  is  still  crazy  with  grief.  She  does 
nothing  but  cry  the  whole  day  long.  If  Asya  hadn't 
looked  out  for  the  children,  they  would  have  had  to 
go  to  bed  without  supper,  I  suppose.  No,  Prince,  don't 
talk  to  me  about  the  beauty  of  war.  Maybe  I  don't 
understand,  but  I  cannot  see  anything  beautiful  in  it. 
No,  no,  your  war  is  ugly.  [She  waves  her  hand  depre- 
catingly,  lays  her  napkin  on  the  table,  and  goes  towards 
the  door.  As  she  passes  Nina,  she  strokes  her  head.] 
Don't  be  offended  by  what  Papa  says ;  Papa  is  old.  He 
is  troubled  and  is  grieving  for  you  and  Volodya;  so  he 


War  47 

shouts  —  he  doesn't  know  what  about  himself. —  You 
stay  here  and  have  a  chat  together.  I'll  go  and  see 
about  supper.  [She  goes  out.  There  is  a  long  silence. 
Somewhere  a  clock  strikes  the  hour  of  nine.'] 

NINA.  What  an  awful  evening!  It's  so  dreary.  In 
my  room  you  can  hear  the  wind  whine  in  the  garden. 
My  heart  feels  so  heavy  I  seem  scarcely  able  to  breathe. 
Why  do  I  feel  so  today,  Prince? 

PRINCE.  I  don't  know.  Your  nerves  are  all  un- 
strung. 

NINA.  Maybe.  But  if  you  knew  how  hard  it  is !  I 
am  so  glad  you  came.  The  whole  day  I  am  by  myself. 
You  know  what  my  father  is  like,  and  Mamma  and  Asya 
have  their  own  troubles.  So  I  wander  about  alone  all 
the  time,  like  a  loafer.  There  is  no  one  to  talk  to,  no 
one  to  pour  one's  heart  out  to.  Nobody  knows;  nobody 
understands.  [She  folds  her  hands  on  the  table  with  a 
look  of  distress  and  lets  her  head  drop  on  them.] 

PRINCE  [bending  over  across  the  table  towards  her 
and  gently  touching  her  hands].  You  know  you  have 
no  friend  more  devoted  than  I. 

NINA  [lifting  her  head  and  unconsciously  drawing 
back  her  hands].  I  know  it,  but  I  can't  speak  to  you 
about  it. 

PRINCE.     Why  not? 

NINA  [with  a  sad  smile].  Because  I  know  it  can't  be 
pleasant  to  you  to  hear  me  speak  —  about  him.  I  know 
you  won't  say  anything,  but  I  can  see  that  every  word  I 
say  pains  you. 

PRINCE  [with  a  tragic  air].  But  what's  to  be  done, 
Nina  Petrovna?  Of  course  I  am  not  going  to  dissemble 
and  lie.  I  love  you,  and  now  that  you  are  so  unhappy 
and  lonely  I  love  you  still  more.  Of  course  it  costs  me 
a  terrific  effort  to  understand  your  feelings  when  you 
mention  Vladimir  Aleksandrovich,  and  when  I  see  you 
suffering  so  on  his  account.  But  I  love  you  so  much  that 


48  War 

I  suffer  what  you  suffer.  I  strive  to  forget  that  you  are 
suffering  for  a  man  who  stands  between  me  and  you,  and 
sometimes  I  actually  succeed.  I  see  that  you  are  suffer- 
ing, and  God  knows  that  if  it  were  possible  I  would  go 
there  and  take  his  place  and  let  him  come  to  you. 

NINA  [putting  out  her  hand  to  him  across  the  table], 
Thank  you,  Prince.  [He  kisses  her  hand  reverently 
and  immediately  lets  it  go.  There  is  silence.] 

NINA  [musingly].  Who  knows?  Maybe  after  all, 
if —  [She  breaks  off  abruptly  and  remains  silent.] 

PRINCE   [quickly].     What?     If  what? 

NINA  [with  averted  gaze].  Nothing.  [She  gets  up, 
goes  to  the  window  and,  leaning  her  face  against  the 
pane,  looks  out  into  the  dark  night.]  How  dark  it  is ! 
Only  the  one  little  light  out  there!  One  might  think  it 
was  late  at  night,  not  early  in  the  evening. 

PRINCE  [coming  up  to  her].  Nina  Petrovna,  what 
were  you  going  to  say  ? 

NINA  [starting  and  trembling  without  turning 
around] .  Nothing. 

PRINCE  [in  a  tremulous  voice].  I  implore  you.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  —  you  can't  imagine  what  it  would 
mean  to  me.  Nina  Petrovna,  one  word!  [Nina  turns 
slowly  around,  looking  at  him  with  strange,  wide-open 
eyes.] 

PRINCE  [stretching  out  his  arm  towards  her],  I  beg 
of  you,  Nina !  For  God's  sake ! 

Nina,  smiling  queerly,  puts  out  her  arms  to  him  and 
lays  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  drawing  him  lightly 
towards  her  and  looking  long  and  fixedly  into  his  eyes 
with  an  enigmatic  expression  on  her  face.  Then  she 
pushes  him  back,  covers  her  face  with  her  hands,  and 
turns  her  back  to  him  again. 

PRINCE.     Nina  Petrovna,  what  does  it  mean?     Nina? 

NINA  [without  turning  around,  hoarsely].  It  means 
that  I  am  a  low,  ugly,  depraved  woman. 


War  49 

PRINCE.     Nina  Petrovna! 

NINA  [imploringly].  Leave  me  alone!  Go.  For 
heaven's  sake  leave  me !  I  don't  know  myself  what  is 
the  matter  with  me. 

There  is  silence.  The  Prince  looks  intently  at  Nina, 
and  she,  as  though  feeling  his  gaze  upon  her,  bows  her 
head  lower  and  lower  as  if  something  were  pressing  it 
down.  The  Prince  suddenly  flings  his  arms  rudely 
around  her  shoulders  and  forcibly  swings  her  toward 
him,  looking  into  her  eyes  with  wild  passion. 

PRINCE.     Nina  —  you  —  you  love  me  too? 

Nina  does  not  resist  him,  but  merely  closes  her  eyes 
and  shakes  her  head  faintly  in  denial. 

PRINCE.  No?  —  You  don't  love  me?  —  Then  what 
does  all  this  mean? 

NINA.     I  told  you. 

PRINCE.     What?     I  don't  understand  you. 

NINA.     I  — 

PRINCE  [almost  shaking  her].  What?  —  What?  — 
Don't  torture  me.  You  do  not  love  me?  No? 

NINA  [she  opens  her  eyes;  they  look  strange  and  as 
though  covered  with  a  mist].  No.  [Suddenly  she 
pushes  him  away  almost  venomously  and  walks  past  him, 
stopping  at  the  door  with  her  back  toward  him.]  I  love 
nobody.  [She  turns  around  with  a  quick  gesture  and 
faces  the  Prince  with  a  look  half  of  fright  and  half  of 
detestation.']  I  told  you  I  was  a  low,  depraved  crea- 
ture. [Rapidly.']  You  know  what?  —  I  love  my  hus- 
band with  all  my  heart,  with  all  my  soul.  I  am  all  out 
there,  with  him  —  I  think  only  of  him  —  I  don't  want 
you ;  you  disgust  me.  But  if  you  wanted  to,  I  — 

PRINCE  [making  a  step  towards  her~],     Nina! 

NINA  [drawing  back  in  terror  and  putting  out  her 
hands  as  though  for  protection].  Prince!  for  God's 
sake! 


50  War 

PRINCE  [coming  quickly  to  Tier],  Why  do  you  torture 
me  and  yourself? 

NINA  [pressing  against  the  door  post].  It  isn't  I  — 
I  don't  want  this. 

PRINCE  [seizing  her  outstretched  arms  and  pulling 
her  to  him],  Nina! 

NINA  [struggling  fiercely  to  twist  her  hands  free], 
Let  me  go!  How  dare  you!  Let  me  go!  [She  tears 
herself  away,  looking  savagely  at  him  out  of  the  corners 
of  her  eyes,  and  rushes  out,  banging  the  door  after  her.] 

PRINCE  [remains  standing  a  long  time  with  head 
hanging  as  if  dazed.  Then  he  turns  around  and  sees 
Semyonov,  who  has  entered  unobserved,  standing  at  the 
door].  Ah! 

SEMYONOV  [with  derision  in  his  voice].  Yes.  That's 
right.  Not  bad  for  a  beginning. 

PRINCE.     What? 

SEMYONOV  [in  the  same  tone  of  derision].  Nothing. 
[He  sits  down  with  a  cool,  leisurely  air  and  pulls  out  the 
cigarette  case  from  his  pocket.]  On  general  principles 
it's  contemptible  enough.  And  yet,  after  all  —  animal 
instincts  —  law  of  nature.  .  .  . 

PRINCE  [controlling  himself].     What  do  you  mean? 

SEMYONOV.     Just  what  I  say. 

PRINCE  [haughtily].     What  precisely? 

SEMYONOV.  You  deign  to  be  interested?  Very  well, 
as  you  please. —  Naturally,  a  young,  healthy,  good-look- 
ing woman  —  her  husband  driven  away  to  the  war  —  it's 
a  plain  case.  But  if  you  wish  to  know  my  opinion  of  it, 
I'll  tell  you.  I  don't  like  your  role  at  all. 

PRINCE  [contemptuously].     No? 

SEMYONOV  [with  perfect  composure].  No.  Imagine! 
I'll  even  go  further  and  say  it  isn't  a  nice  role.  And 
inasmuch  as  the  expression  on  your  face  is  so  plain  as  to 
admit  no  doubt  of  its  meaning,  I  have  no  objection  to 
telling  you  what  I  mean. 


War  51 

PRINCE  [curtly].     I  demand  an  explanation. 

SEMYONOV  [sardonically].  You  can't  demand  any- 
thing of  me,  Your  Excellency,  for  I  would  send  you 
straight  to  hell. 

PRINCE  [making  a  step  forward].     How  dare  you? 

SEMYONOV  [coolly].     Sh!     Sh! 

PRINCE.     But  I  insist. 

SEMYONOV  [mockingly].  Insist!  Oh,  well,  what's 
the  difference?  [In  an  even  voice,  pronouncing  every 
word  with  deliberate  emphasis.]  You  know  very  well 
that  she  does  not  love  you,  that  she  loves  her  husband. 
You  simply  excite  her  as  a  man.  Therefore,  even  should 
you  succeed  in  catching  the  right  moment,  I  tell  you 
frankly  I  shouldn't  envy  you.  Your  position  would  be 
an  extremely  humiliating  one. 

PRINCE  [he  shrugs  his  shoulders  and,  laughing  con- 
temptuously, goes  to  the  table  and  sits  down].  All  this 
is  very  interesting,  and  I  hope  to  talk  to  you  about  it  at 
another  time  and  in  another  place. 

SEMYONOV  [scowling  and  tilting  his  head  to  one  side]. 
What?  A  duel?  No,  no.  Drop  that  talk.  It's  true 
these  are  war  times.  Still  I  don't  propose  to  give  up  my 
life  for  anything  like  this.  It  will  have  to  be  something 
more  interesting. 

PRINCE  [contemptuously].     You  decline? 

SEMYONOV.     Yes,  I  decline.     Just  fancy! 

PRINCE.     Oh,  well,  you  will  change  your  mind. 

SEMYONOV.  No.  This  is  final.  I  assure  you,  I 
haven't  the  slightest  inclination  to  fight  with  you,  and 
if  you  are  going  to  try  to  force  me  by  petty  annoyances, 
then  let  me  tell  you  again  that,  after  all,  these  are  war 
times  and  I  have  the  proper  kind  of  weapon  to  put  an 
end  to  them  forever. 

PRINCE   [sneeringly].     A  revolver? 

SEMYONOV.  Yes,  a  revolver.  And  not  a  bad  re- 
volver, either;  a  present  from  the  late  Daue.  [Chang- 


52  War 

ing  his  tone.]  And  if  you  will  permit  yourself  to  badger 
me  in  any  way,  I  promise  you  I'll  shoot  your  head  off  as 
calmly  and  deliberately  as  I  am  talking  to  you  now. 

PRINCE.     We  shall  see. 

SEMYONOV.     We  shall  see. 

PRINCE.  At  any  rate,  I  shall  get  ahead  of  you,  Mr. 
Semyonov. 

Tine  bell  rings.  Semyonov  rises  and  slowly  goes  to 
the  door  and  opens  it.  He  is  heard  speaking  to  someone. 
Then  the  door  shuts  and  Semyonov  returns,  looking  trou- 
bled and  uneasily  eyeing  a  telegram  which  he  holds  in  his 
hand. 

PRINCE.     I  want  to  tell  you  only  this  — 

SEMYONOV  [frowning  fiercely].  Let's  stop  this  con- 
versation for  the  present.  We'll  finish  it  some  other 
time.  Here  is  —  a  telegram.  [He  goes  over  to  the 
door  and  half  opens  it.]  Piotr  Ivanovich !  Ho,  Piotr 
Ivanovich !  —  What's  the  matter  with  them  out  there  ? 
Are  they  asleep? — [He  looks  at  the  telegram.]  Do 
you  know  what  I  think,  Prince? 

PRINCE  [still  contemptuously].     What  do  you  want? 

SEMYONOV  [ignoring  his  sneer] .  I  don't  like  this  tele- 
gram. 

PRINCE  [alarmed,  rising].     What  is  it? 

SEMYONOV.  It's  from  out  there  —  addressed  to  Piotr 
Ivanovich  direct.  [Speaking  quickly.]  I  think  we 
ought  to  open  and  read  it  first. 

PRINCE.     But  — 

SEMYONOV  [impatiently].  What  "but"?  The  cir- 
cumstances call  for  it.  I  don't  do  it  out  of  curiosity. 
Suppose  something  has  happened?  Then  we  can  at 
least  prepare  them,  break  the  news  as  gently  as  possible. 
Who  knows  what  fool  concocts  these  telegrams,  anyway? 
[He  opens  the  telegram,  reads  it,  and  then,  lifting  his 
face,  which  has  turned  strangely  grave,  holds  it  out  to 


War  53 

the  Prince.]  It  has  come.  [He  steps  quickly  to  the 
wall  and  remains  standing  there  with  his  back  turned.] 

PRINCE  [after  rapidly  glancing  over  the  telegram,  and 
looking  at  Semyonov  with  an  expression  of  horror], 
Good  God!  What's  to  be  done  now?  What  does  it 
mean? 

SEMYONOV  [he  remains  standing  in  the  same  position 
with  his  back  to  the  Prince.  He  speaks  hoarsely], 
What?  Killed!  That's  all!  —  They've  killed  him. 
[He  turns  around  swiftly,  snatches  the  telegram  from 
the  Prince's  hands  and  sticks  it  in  his  pocket].  My! 
How  stupid !  Why  are  you  standing  there  like  that  ? 
Go  tell  Nina  Petrovna.  She'll  know  how  to  manage  it 
better  than  we  —  and  I'll  try  to  break  it  to  Asya. — 
Well?  Why  aren't  you  going?  Go,  please. 

The  Prince  obediently  crosses  over  to  the  door  and 
goes  out. 

SEMYONOV.     There!     Volodya,  too!     The  devil! 

He  bites  his  moustache,  and  remains  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  sunk  in  thought. —  A  shrill,  piercing 
cry  is  heard  from  a  distance  inside  the  house.  Semyonov 
trembles,  lets  his  moustache  drop  out  of  his  mouth,  and 
listens.  The  cry  is  repeated.  Hurried  steps  are  heard 
and  the  Prince  runs  in. 

PRINCE.  She  heard  me  tell  her.  Do  you  hear? 
How  terrible! 

SEMYONOV.     Who?     Olga  Petrovna? 

PRINCE.  Yes  —  I  told  Nina  —  she  heard  me.  I 
think  we  must  call  a  doctor. 

SEMYONOV.  What's  the  good  of  a  doctor?  The 
devil !  —  And  Asya  will  be  here  any  minute,  too. 

The  wild  shriek  draws  nearer;  the  door  opens  noisily 
and  Olga  Petrovna  rushes  in  with  her  gray  hair  undone, 


54  War 

looking  pitiful  and  terrible.     Nina  comes  running  after 
her,  weeping,  distracted  and  trying  to  quiet  her. 

NINA.  Mamma!  Dear  Mamma!  For  Heaven's 
sake! 

OLGA.  Where  is  it?  Where?  It  is  not  true  —  not 
true !  — Killed !  —  It's  not  true!  —  Volodya  killed!  — 
Who  said  it?  [She  reels  and  falls.  Nina  and  the 
Prince  catch  her  and  put  her  in  a  chair.  Nina  puts  her 
arms  around  her  neck,  kisses  her,  strokes  her  head  and 
cries.  ] 

NINA.  Mamma!  My  dear  little  mother!  Mamma! 
You  mustn't. —  My  darling  mother. 

PIOTR  [entering,  and  with  quick,  firm  steps  crossing 
directly  over  to  Olga.  His  face  is  gravely  solemn  and 
seems  as  though  turned  into  stone].  Olga! 

OLGA  [flinging  herself  at  him  and  clutching  his 
hands] .  Piotr  —  they  are  lying,  aren't  they  ?  Volodya 
killed !  —  Piotr !  [She  seizes  him  with  her  hands,  but 
instantly  pushes  him  back  and  tears  herself  away  from 
Nina's  embrace.]  It  isn't  true. —  It  cannot  be.—  Leave 
me  alone !  —  [She  breaks  away  from  her  seat,  runs  into 
a  corner,  goes  down  on  her  knees  and,  as  in  a  fit  of  mad- 
ness, begins  to  bow  her  head  rapidly  to  the  ground.] 
Lord,  Lord,  Lord !  —  Lord ! 

Piotr  Ivanovich  drops  heavily  on  a  chair  near  the 
table  and  covers  his  face  with  his  hands.  Asya  appears 
at  the  door,  in  a  hat  and  jacket,  pale  and  frightened.  At 
sight  of  Olga  Petrovna  kneeling  and  bowing  she  stops  as 
though  anchored  to  the  spot  and  her  hands  drop  limply 
to  her  sides. 

OLGA  [bowing  her  head].  They  have  killed  Volodya! 
Volodya !  —  Oh,  Lord,  Lord,  help !  —  Help,  O  Lord !  — 
[Seeing  Asya.]  Asya!  —  Asya  darling!  Our  Volodya 
is  no  more.  They  have  killed  our  Volodya !  [Crawling 


War  55 

to  her  on  her  knees,  she  takes  both  Asya's  hands  and 
kisses  them  again  and  again.]  Killed!  Asya,  Asya 
darling !  —  No  more  Volodya. —  O  Lord,  Lord,  Lord ! 

Asya  stands  absolutely  rigid,  wide-eyed,  and  staring 
blankly  before  her.  Nina  sits  with  her  head  on  the 
table,  sobbing.  The  Prince  and  Semyonov  stand  aside 
with  bowed  heads.  Piotr  Ivanovich  sits  at  the  table,  his 
face  buried  in  his  hands,  but  dry-eyed. 


CURTAIN 


ACT   IV 

It  is  golden  autumn.  The  house  and  garden  are  the 
same  as  in  the  first  act.  Occasionally  dead  leaves  de- 
tach themselves  from  the  trees,  and  float  circling  to  the 
ground.  Through  the  trees,  now  bare,  are  seen  the 
roofs  of  houses  and  the  churches  of  the  little  town. 
Piotr  Ivanovich,  wearing  an  oldish  military  cloak  and 
a  cap  pulled  down  over  his  ears,  is  sitting  with  bent 
back  on  the  balustrade.  Near  him  are  a  paper  and  a 
cigar-case,  but  he  neither  reads  nor  smokes;  he  stares 
blankly  straight  ahead  of  him.  For  a  considerable 
while  he  remains  alone  on  the  stage  in  this  pose. 
Then  the  Prince  and  Nina  appear  on  the  terrace. 
Nina  is  not  in  mourning  costume,  but  smartly  and  ele- 
gantly dressed  as  though  for  some  festive  occasion.  Her 
face  is  animated  and  beaming.  At  sight  of  her  father 
she  turns  serious,  though  not  without  a  slight  effort. 

NINA.  Papa,  sitting  alone  again !  [She  seats  herself 
beside  him  and  puts  her  arm  around  him.']  You'll  get 
sick  if  you  go  on  this  way.  It's  enough,  Papa.  It  can't 
be  helped.  You  can't  bring  him  back  to  life. 

PIOTR  IVANOVICH  [assuming  a  bold  and  care-free  air"]. 
Oh,  I  just  came  out  to  get  some  fresh  air.  The  weather 
is  splendid. —  I  have  been  reading  the  paper. —  Lemberg 
has  been  taken. —  Have  you  read  it,  Prince? 

PRINCE  [hesitatingly].   Why  —  er  —  yes  —  of  course. 

NINA  [pityingly,  stroking  him  on  the  shoulder], 
Pap^,  Lemberg  was  taken  long  ago.  Have  you  forgot- 
ten? 

PieTR  IVANOVICH  [with  an  air  of  interest].  Was  it? 
When?  I  didn't  know. 

56 


War  57 

NINA  [with  a  stealthy,  significant  look  at  the  Prince']. 
You  have  simply  forgotten,  Papa. 

PIOTR  IVANOVICH.     Maybe. 

NINA  [heaving  a  deep  sigh].  Of  course  you  have. 
You  are  not  doing  right,  staying  away  by  yourself  all 
the  time  and  avoiding  people.  It  will  hurt  you. 

PIOTR  IVANOVICH  [with  sudden  animation].  It's 
nothing  —  a  trifle. —  You  remember  Volodya's  letter 
from  Yaroslav,  Nina? 

NINA.  Yes,  yes,  I  remember.  You  mustn't  speak 
about  it,  Papa. 

PIOTR  IVANOVICH  [bowing  his  head].     Yes,  of  course. 

NINA.  You  are  only  exciting  yourself.  What  can  be 
done  ?  Volodya  is  not  the  only  one  —  lots  of  people 
have  lost  their  lives. 

PIOTR  IVANOVICH  [listlessly].  Yes,  lots,  lots. — 
What  can  be  done  ? 

PRINCE  [in  an  effort  to  console  him].  After  all,  your 
son  Volodya  died  an  enviable  death. 

Piotr  Ivanovich  looks  with  fright  at  the  Prince  as 
though  afraid  he  might  make  some  tactless,  uncalled-for 
remark,  then  quickly  lowers  his  eyes. 

PRINCE.  He  died  like  a  hero.  That  ought  to  be  some 
comfort  to  you  after  all.  An  officer  who  was  wounded  in 
the  same  action  told  me  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for  your 
son  the  whole  regiment  would  have  been  annihilated. 

PIOTR  IVANOVICH  [with  a  queer,  sickly  frown].  Yes, 
yes  —  I  know  —  yes. 

PRINCE.  He  said  that  in  spite  of  the  terrible  fire, 
Volodya  never  once  went  down  into  the  trench.  He  re- 
mained above,  calmly  directing  the  firing. 

PIOTR  IVANOVICH.     Yes,  yes  —  I  know  —  yes. 

PRINCE.  At  last  the  Austrians  concentrated  almost 
their  entire  fire  on  his  division.  And  when  he  was 
wounded,  he  told  his  comrades  he  was  happy  to  die  like 
that.  It  was  a  heroic  death,  say  what  you  will.  Im- 


58  War 

agine  the  strength  of  soul  required  to  die  feeling  happy  in 
the  cause  of  one's  death.  It  denotes  the  highest  will 
power,  the  sublimest  enthusiasm,  and  you  have  a  right  to 
be  proud  of  your  son's  memory. 

PIOTR  [rising  with  a  nervous  movement  and  picking 
up  now  the  paper,  now  the  cigar-case,  and  letting  them 
drop].  Yes,  yes  —  I  know  —  he  died  a  heroic  death — - 
proud  of  his  memory  —  yes,  yes.  [Suddenly  straighten- 
ing himself  and  flourishing  the  newspaper  in  the  air.] 
I  know  myself  that  Volodya  died  the  death  of  a  hero. 
Yes,  sir,  I  know  it;  I  know  he  couldn't  have  done 
otherwise!  Yes,  a  hero,  a  hero!  What's  the  use  of 
talking  about  it?  No  use!  No  use,  at  all!  Excuse 
me !  .  .  .  [He  wraps  the  cloak  nervously  around  him, 
presses  the  newspaper  to  his  chest,  and  quickly  walks 
into  the  house.  Nina  and  the  Prince,  a  little  embar- 
rassed, follow  him  with  their  eyes.  There  is  silence.] 

NINA  [quietly].  You  must  pardon  my  father,  Prince. 
Volodya's  terrible  death  has  made  a  perfect  baby  of  him. 
He  is  only  the  wreck  of  his  former  self. 

PRINCE  [deferentially  and  sadly].  I  understand, 
Nina  Petrovna. 

NINA  [sitting  down  on  the  balustrade  where  her  father 
had  been  sitting].  Papa  cannot  endure  to  hear  anything 
about  Volodya.  You  know,  he  never  wept  a  tear.  He 
just  keeps  quiet.  And  his  silence  is  more  horrible  than 
the  worst  crying  and  sobbing.  It  is  so  awfully  hard  to 
look  at  him,  so  hard!  Good  God,  when  will  this  war 
end?  When  will  it  end?  And  will  those  who  caused  it 
never  be  brought  to  account  for  all  the  tears,  all  the 
misery  ? 

PRINCE.     I  think  they  will. 

NINA.  Is  it  possible  that  after  all  these  horrors  there 
will  again  be  wars  and  people  will  again  die  and  be 
killed?  Is  it  possible  that  the  people  will  never  come 
to  their  senses,  never  understand  what  they  are  doing? 


War  59 

PRINCE.     I  don't  think  they  ever  will. 
There  is  silence. 

NINA  [musingly].  Semyonov  said  that  war  can  never 
be  done  away  with  because  war  is  not  opposed  to  human 
nature,  but  on  the  contrary  is  quite  in  keeping  with  hu- 
man nature.  Can  that  be  true? 

PRINCE.  Oh,  well,  there  may  be  a  difference  of 
opinion  as  to  that. 

NINA.  I  don't  see  how  there  can  be  any  difference  of 
opinion.  [With  heat.]  If  it  were  as  Semyonov  says, 
then  I  think  the  human  race  ought  simply  be  wiped  off 
the  face  of  the  earth.  It  would  have  no  right  to  exist. 

The  Prince  shrugs  his  shoulders  in  indecision.  There 
is  a  pause. 

NINA.  What  beauty  all  around !  See  how  the  leaves 
are  falling.  And  the  sun  is  shining  as  though  it  were 
afraid  it  might  interfere  with  the  beauty  and  the  still- 
ness. [She  laughs.]  I  am  happy,  Prince.  Mamma 
thinks  me  shocking  for  having  given  up  mourning;  she 
says  I  must  have  forgotten  Volodya.  But  how  can  I 
meet  Vladimir  in  a  black  dress?  I  can't  think  without 
tears  of  poor  Volodya,  who  lies  buried  somewhere  out 
there  in  a  strange,  horrible  soil, —  but  still  I  am  happy. 
I  may  be  an  egotist,  I  may  be  a  bad  woman,  but  I  am 
happy.  When  I  received  the  telegram  from  Vladimir, 
I  thought  I'd  go  mad  with  joy.  I  wanted  to  sing,  to 
dance. 

PRINCE  [dolefully].  Yes,  of  course.  But  don't  you 
think,  Nina  Petrovna,  it  is  a  little  cruel  to  tell  me  so? 

NINA  [recollecting  herself,  with  a  wayward  smile]. 
Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Prince,  but,  upon  my  word,  I  am 
so  happy  that  I  have  forgotten  everything.  I  was  in- 


60  War 

considerate.  Forgive  me.  [She  puts  out  her  hand  to 
him.] 

PRINCE  [declining  to  take  it].  I  have  no  right  either 
to  forgive  or  to  resent  your  conduct.  I  have  forced  my- 
self into  your  life,  and  I  can  lay  no  claim  to  a  place  in 
it. 

NINA  [grieved  and  sorry,  yet  with  a  smile].  Why 
do  you  speak  that  way,  Prince?  You  know  I  am  very 
fond  of  you. 

PRINCE  [with  an  affected  smile].  Thank  you  —  I 
value  it  very  highly  —  but  it's  not  exactly  the  sentiment 
I  wanted. 

NINA   [grieved].     But  what  can  I  do? 

PRINCE.  You  can  do  nothing. —  Well,  let's  drop  it. 
[He  shakes  his  head.]  What  I  wanted  to  say  is  this. 
As  long  as  everything  was  uncertain,  I  did  not  think  I 
had  a  right  to  leave  you.  I  thought  that  after  all  I 
might  be  useful  —  that  if  the  worst  should  happen,  it 
might  be  easier  for  you  in  your  ordeal  to  know  that  you 
had  a  friend  near  you,  ready  to  do  everything  for  you. 

NINA  [quietly].     I  am  so  grateful  to  you,  Prince. 

PRINCE.  But  now  circumstances  have  altered.  Vlad- 
imir Aleksandrovich  is  returning  home.  His  wound  can- 
not be  serious,  or  he  would  have  written  you  about  it. 
I  feel  that  my  further  presence  here  is  not  needed,  that 
I  would  be  in  your  own  and  your  husband's  way. 

NINA  [sadly].     You  mean  to  leave  us? 

PRINCE.  Yes;  I  am  going  to  Moscow  this  evening  — 
and  I  think  we  shall  never  see  each  other  again. 

NINA  [after  a  pause].  Well,  perhaps  you  are  right. 
You  had  better  go. 

PRINCE  [bitterly].  Is  that  all  you  have  to  tell  me  for 
our  last  farewell? 

NINA  [throwing  up  her  arms  in  a  gesture  of  help- 
lessness]. What  else  can  I  say? 

PRINCE.     This,   Nina  —  let  me   frankly  call  you  by 


War  61 

your  first  name  for  the  first  and  last  time.  In  my  heart 
I  always  call  you  so.  [Nina,  in  embarrassment,  hangs 
her  head  and  locks  her  fingers.]  —  Tell  me,  have  you 
never  had  any  other  feeling  for  me  ?  Don't  be  surprised, 
and  don't  be  frightened  at  my  putting  this  question  to 
you.  I  want  nothing  from  you  any  more;  but  it  would 
make  it  easier  for  me  to  go  if  I  could  think  the  ruin  of 
my  life  was  only  an  accident,  that  the  role  I  played  in 
relation  to  you  was  not  so  ridiculous,  after  all!  Spare 
my  masculine  self-love.  [He  gives  a  short  laugh.] 

NINA.     I  don't  know  —  I  can't  tell  myself. 

PRINCE.     So,  after  all — ? 

NINA  [with  sudden  resolution].  Listen,  Prince!  you 
have  been  so  good  to  me  all  this  time,  I  am  so  thankful 
to  you,  I'll  tell  you.  I'll  tell  you  the  truth.  [After  a 
second's  hesitation.]  Well,  yes,  there  were  moments 
when  I  loved  you. 

PRINCE  [grasping  her  hand].     Nina! 

NINA  [pulling  her  hand  away].  But  those  were 
moments  of  weakness,  when  I  felt  all  alone  in  the  world, 
convinced  that  I  should  never  see  Vladimir  again. 
[Lowering  her  head.]  I  am  a  woman,  Prince, —  just  an 
ordinary  woman,  as  you  once  said. —  You  remember  ?  I 
cannot  live  without  love.  And  so,  when  I  thought  that 
Vladimir  was  killed  —  [Fidgeting  uneasily,  and  not 
looking  at  him.]  It's  ugly,  mean  —  but  I —  [She 
breaks  off  as  under  a  strain.] 

PRINCE.     That  means  that  if  — 

NINA  [frightened,  quickly  raising  her  eyes  to  him], 
Prince !  Don't !  You  mustn't  say  that.  It  was  simply 
stronger  than  myself.  [With  lowered  voice.]  I  am  an 
ugly,  immoral  person  —  a  woman  to  be  despised. 

PRINCE.  Maybe.  But  I  love  you  just  as  you  are, 
and  now  more  than  ever. 

NINA  [rising  quickly],  Goodby,  Prince.  You  mustn't 
speak  about  it  any  more. 


62  War 

PRINCE.  One  word,  Nina,  one  word!  So,  if  your 
husband  had  really  been  killed  — 

NINA  [silently  for  a  while  she  struggles  with  herself, 
then  with  resolution  says  quickly:]  Well,  yes! 

There  is  silence.  Nina  stands  with  her  face  turned 
away  from  the  Prince,  her  hands  trembling. 

PRINCE.  So!  How  stupid  the  ways  of  life  are! 
Just  accident.  It's  absurd.  Thousands  of  people  killed 
in  the  war,  and  — 

NINA  [drawing  herself  up  and  stiffening  straight  as  a 
cord~\ .  Prince ! 

PRINCE  [stubbornly  and  dolefully].  You  are  afraid 
of  the  words.  But  if  it  is  the  truth !  —  Why  should  I 
mince  it,  why  should  I  sham  and  lie,  when  that  which 
makes  you  so  happy  and  radiant  today  means  for  me  the 
end  of  all  my  hopes,  the  end  of  love  and  happiness?  If 
you  can  so  lightly  and  so  easily  sacrifice  me  to  another, 
then  why  should  I  dissemble?  I'll  tell  you  the  truth  — 
why  shouldn't  I  ?  When  you  were  looking  over  the  lists 
of  the  dead,  trembling  lest  your  husband's  name  be  there, 
I,  too,  was  looking  for  it. 

NINA  [indignantly].  Could  you  do  a  thing  like  that? 
That  was  vile. 

PRINCE.     What  was  vile?     Is  it  vile  to  love? 

NINA  [contemptuously].  Love!  Let  that  word 
alone!  How  dare  you  talk  about  love? 

PRINCE  [surprised].     Nina! 

NINA  [proudly].  I  am  no  Nina  to  you.  How  dare 
you  call  me  Nina?  You  loved  me?  [Laughing  con- 
temptuously.] You  wanted  a  good-looking  woman, 
that's  all.  Why,  men  like  you  cannot  love.  They  don't 
know  what  it  is.  Let  me  tell  you  now:  —  I  never, 
never  loved  you,  not  for  a  single  moment. —  Let  me 
alone.  Do  you  hear?  [She  turns  quickly  and  goes  into 
the  house.] 


War  63 

PRINCE.  Nina.  [He  remains  standing  for  a  long 
time  with  head  bowed,  then  turns  around  resolutely  and 
goes  to  the  gate.  Before  he  reaches  it,  he  is  met  by 
Asya  and  Semyonov.  Asya  is  in  deep  mourning.  On 
the  sleeve  of  Semyonov's  top-coat  is  a  red  cross. ] 

SEMYONOV.     Ah,  Your  Excellency!     Going  already? 

PRINCE.  Yes,  I  am  going.  I  want  to  say  goodby  to 
you,  Aleksandra  Ivanovna. 

ASYA  [mechanically],     Goodby. 

SEMYONOV.  Why  this  formal  leave-taking?  Are  you 
going  away? 

PRINCE.     Yes ;  I  am  going  to  Moscow  tonight. 

SEMYONOV.  That  so?  H'm —  Well,  I  guess  it's 
best. 

PRINCE  [with  an  affected  smile].     I  suppose  it  is. 

SEMYONOV.  Well,  goodby,  then.  You  are  going  away 
for  good,  I  suppose? 

PRINCE.     Yes! 

SEMYONOV.     Goodby. 

They  shake  hands  and  part. 

SEMYONOV  [to  the  Prince  at  the  gate].  One  moment, 
Prince.  [The  Prince  stops;  Semyonov  goes  over  to 
him.]  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  —  I  had  a  very  bad 
opinion  of  you  —  and  I  am  glad  to  find  that  you  have 
force  and  will  and  dignity.  I  thought  —  excuse  me  — 
that  you  were  j  ust  a  plain  rascal. —  Now  I  see  you  have 
suffered  a  great  deal.  Forgive  the  past.  I  wish  you 
well. 

PRINCE  [with  a  touch  of  haughty  irony].  Thank  you; 
I  am  deeply  moved. 

SEMYONOV.  Goodby.  [He  gives  the  Prince  a  vigor- 
ous handshake  and  follows  him  a  while  with  his  eyes. 
The  Prince  goes  out  without  looking  around.  Semyonov 
runs  up  the  steps  to  overtake  Asya.]  Asya,  wait. 

ASYA  [stopping].     What  is  it? 


64  War 

SEMYONOV.  Tell  you  what,  let's  sit  down  here  a 
little.  The  atmosphere  inside  is  stifling;  upon  my  word, 
it's  impossible  to  breathe.  Piotr  Ivanovich  never  says  a 
word,  Olga  Petrovna  cries,  and  Nina  is  crazy  with  joy. 
We  don't  exist  for  her  now.  Let's  sit  down  here. 

ASYA  [obediently].  All  right.  [She  quietly  goes 
down  the  steps  and  takes  a  seat  on  the  bench  under  the 
trees.]  I  just  wanted  to  see  what  Mother  was  doing. 

SEMYONOV.     You  mean  Olga  Petrovna? 

ASYA  [quietly].  Yes,  Mother.  She  mustn't  be  al- 
lowed to  remain  alone  for  long. 

SEMYONOV  [mechanically].  You  still  call  her 
"  Mother  "  ? 

ASYA  [quietly].     Yes. 

SEMYONOV.  H'm  —  well,  oh,  yes !  [After  a  pause.] 
So  the  Prince  is  going  away.  That's  good.  The  fact 
is,  it  would  all  be  ridiculous  if  it  weren't  so  tragic. 
Strange  what  a  jumble  of  things  life  is  —  tragedy,  com- 
edy, with  a  little  merry  farce  thrown  in. 

ASYA  [mechanically,  and  hardly  listening].  Where  is 
the  farce? 

SEMYONOV  [with  an  insincere  laugh].  Well,  between 
you  and  me,  isn't  it  a  farce?  Why  not? 

ASYA    [wearily].     Oh,  stop,  Semyon  Nikolayevich. 

SEMYONOV.  I'd  be  glad  to  stop,  Aleksandra  Ivan- 
ovna,  but  I  can't. 

ASYA  [pained].     It's  a  bore. 

SEMYONOV.  For  you  it's  a  bore;  for  me  it's  misery. 
What's  to  be  done?  You  see,  the  Prince  is  going  away. 
That  means  that  they  have  talked  themselves  to  a  con- 
clusion, after  all.  But  you  and  I  seem  to  be  absolutely 
deadlocked;  we  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  reach  a  con- 
clusion. 

ASYA  [pained,  glancing  all  around].  Really,  Senya 
—  I  don't  know  —  what  conclusion  ?  All  there  is  to  be 


War  65 

said  has  been  said  over  and  over  again.  What  good 
is  your  persistence? 

SEMYONOV.  You  may  think  all  has  been  said,  but  I 
don't.  There  is  still  the  last  word  to  be  said. 

ASYA.     Say  it  then. 

SEMYONOV.     It's  easy  to  say  "  say  it." 

ASYA  [indifferently'].     Don't  say  it,  then. 

SEMYONOV.  Pshaw!  How  you  throw  ice  water  on  a 
fellow's  head!  It's  cruel,  Aleksandra  Ivanovna. 

ASYA.  I  won't;  I  won't.  Say  what  you  intended  to 
say.  [There  is  silence.  Semyonov  looks  at  Asya  out 
of  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  twirls  his  moustache,  and 
raises  it  to  his  mouth.]  Well,  I  have  to  go,  Senya. 

SEMYONOV.     One  moment.     Listen,  Asya. 

ASYA.     I  am  listening. 

SEMYONOV.  Listen,  then.  [Hesitating,  then  making 
up  his  mind.]  I  know  that  you  are  unhappy,  and  that 
you  don't  care  for  me.  But  the  situation  is  this  —  No, 
that's  not  what  I  wanted  to  say.  I'll  tell  you  straight 
out.  I  love  you,  Asya,  and  I  haven't  much  longer  to 
live. 

ASYA  [annoyed].  You  know  what,  Senya.  You  have 
said  so  much  about  dying  that  we  have  ceased  to  believe 
it.  For  three  years  now  you've  been  telling  us  that  you 
are  dying.  [She  turns  away  with  a  mild  wave  of  her 
hand.] 

SEMYONOV  [his  face  changing].  I  beg  your  pardon 
for  not  having  died.  Honestly,  it  isn't  my  fault. 

ASYA  [sighing].  Goodness  gracious!  Words,  words, 
words!  Nothing  but  words!  What's  it  all  for? 

SEMYONOV  [with  an  affected  laugh].     For  this  — 

ASYA  [throwing  up  her  hands  and  shrugging  her 
shoulders].  Stop,  Semyon  Nikolayevich ! 

SEMYONOV.     But  if  I  love  you! 

ASYA.     Oh,  for  God's  sake,  how  sick  I  am  of  it!     [In 


66  War 

a  burst  of  vexation.]  You  are  standing  with  one  foot 
in  the  grave  and  talk  about  love.  [She  rises. ] 

SEMYONOV  [also  rising,  his  face  pale  with  rage].  Yes. 
So  ?  Fine !  —  What  of  it  ?  I  am  standing  with  one 
foot  in  the  grave,  but  your  Volodya  has  been  all  in  the 
grave  a  long  time. 

ASYA  [utters  a  short  shriek  and  drops  down  on  the 
bench  and  covers  her  face  with  her  hands] .  Oh,  Senya ! 

There  is  silence.  Semyonov  looks  at  her,  his  whole 
body  trembling. 

SEMYONOV  [coming  to  himself].  Asya!  Asya! 
Forgive  me !  I  —  I  didn't  mean  to. —  I  don't  know  — 

ASYA  [suddenly  letting  her  hands  fall,  in  a  dead 
voice].  It's  all  the  same.  [She  rises  and  slowly  goes 
towards  the  house.'] 

SEMYONOV  [following  her,  not  knowing  how  to  undo 
the  effect  of  the  remark  he  allowed  to  slip  in  his  heat], 
Asya,  I  swear  I  didn't  mean  to  say  it. 

NINA  [appearing  on  the  balcony].  Ah,  you  here? 
Where  is  the  Prince  ?  Is  he  gone  ? 

SEMYONOV.     Yes. 

NINA  [with  a  momentary  expression  of  sadness  flitting 
across  her  face].  Is  he? —  Have  you  been  to  the 
station,  Semyon  Nikolayevich ?  [To  Asya  as  she  passes 
by  her  towards  the  house.]  What's  the  matter?  You 
look  so  queer.  Has  anything  happened? 

ASYA.     No;  I  have  a  headache.     [She  goes  out.] 

NINA.     Haven't  you  been  at  the  station? 

SEMYONOV.  No;  I  called  them  up.  The  train  will 
arrive  at  three. 

NINA  [disappointed].     You  said  it  was  due  at  two. 

SEMYONOV.  So  it  is,  according  to  the  timetable,  but 
the  station  master  said  it  will  probably  be  an  hour  late. 
So  far,  not  a  single  train  has  arrived  on  schedule  time. 


War  67 

NINA.     Are  you  going  there? 

SEMYONOV.  No.  No  soldiers  are  coming  today  ex- 
cept Vladimir  Aleksandrovich.  It's  a  regular  train. 

NINA.  I  ought  to  go,  but  —  [Smiling  constrain- 
edly.] I  can't.  I  am  so  excited  I  can  scarcely  contain 
myself.  Even  here  I  am  almost  crazy.  It  seems  to  me, 
somehow,  that  he  would  like  it  better  if  I  met  him  at 
home  with  no  strangers  around. 

SEMYONOV  [mechanically].  Yes,  certainly.  The 
Prince  has  offered  to  bring  him  here  in  his  motor.  So 
you  needn't  worry. 

NINA.     What?     The  Prince? 

SEMYONOV.  Yes;  he  said  he  would  go  to  the  station 
and  bring  Vladimir  Aleksandrovich  home. 

NINA  [her  eyes  cloud  over  with  a  mist].  How  kind 
of  him !  Don't  you  think  he  is  a  very  kind  man,  Semyon 
Nikolayevich  ? 

SEMYONOV.  Who  ?  The  Prince  ?  Yes,  he  is  —  not 
without  a  sense  of  gratitude. —  So  you  are  going  to  re- 
main at  home  ? 

NINA.  Yes!  —  I  can't —  [She  smiles  sadly.]  You 
know,  I  am  afraid. 

SEMYONOV.     Of  what? 

NINA.  I  am  just  afraid  —  afraid  that  when  I  see  the 
wound  — 

SEMYONOV.  There's  nothing  to  be  afraid  of.  He 
wrote  you  it  was  healing  already ;  —  so  it  can't  be  very 
serious.  He  would  have  prepared  you  beforehand,  if  it 
were. 

NINA  [with  a  sickly  smile],  I  know  it  isn't  dan- 
gerous —  and  yet  —  Well,  I  don't  know  —  I  am 
afraid. 

SEMYONOV.  You  had  better  stay  at  home,  then,  if 
you  are  so  excited. 

NINA  [sitting  down  on  the  balustrade].  Sit  down, 
Semyon  Nikolayevich  —  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  have 


68  War 

a  horror  of  remaining  alone.     Asya  has  gone  to  Mamma. 

SEMYONOV.  All  right.  I'll  stay  with  you.  [He 
takes  a  seat  opposite  Nina.} 

NINA   [musingly].     Now  we'll  all  be  together  again. 

SEMYONOV.     Not  exactly  all. 

NINA  [sorrowfully"].  No,  not  all;  you  are  right. 
Poor  Volodya!  Poor  Daue!  I  am  happy,  but  I'm 
ashamed  to  be.  I  am  so  sorry  for  Mother,  for  Asya,  for 
Father. 

SEMYONOV  [lighting  a  cigarette'] .  Yes,  you  are  lucky, 
after  all. 

NINA.     He  is  wounded,  though. 

SEMYONOV.  What  if  he  is?  The  wound  will  heal. 
You  know,  it's  even  better  so.  If  he  hadn't  been 
wounded,  he  might  have  been  killed  later.  Now  it's  all 
over.  Even  if  he  should  want  to  go  again  when  he  is 
cured,  you  won't  let  him.  In  the  meantime  the  war  will 
end,  and  then  you  can  begin  to  live.  With  the  cross  of 
St.  George,  all  roads  are  open  to  him.  He  can  get  any- 
thing he  wants.  You'll  move  to  Petrograd  —  I  can't  for 
the  life  of  me  get  used  to  that  name  —  Petrograd. 

NINA  [smiling  gayly~\.  No,  no;  I  won't  let  him  go 
again.  Let  others  go  now.  Vladimir  has  done  his  part. 

SEMYONOV.  And  has  distinguished  himself  doing  it, 
too. 

NINA  [radiant].  Try  as  I  may,  I  can't  imagine 
Vladimir  in  war  —  a  hero  —  under  fire.  As  I  see  him, 
he  is  just  a  plain,  dear  man. 

SEMYONOV.     It's  men  like  him  that  make  heroes. 

NINA  [ecstatically].  Ah,  Semyon  Nikolayevich,  if 
you  only  knew  how  happy  I  am! 

SEMYONOV  [with  a  friendly  smile].  I  am  glad  you 
are,  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart. 

NINA  [plaintively].  Mamma  is  angry  at  me  because 
I'm  not  in  black.  I  haven't  forgotten  Volodya,  but  I 


War  69 

simply  couldn't  wear  mourning  today.     My  heart  is  full 
of  sunshine,  so  how  can  I  put  on  crepe  ? 

SEMYONOV.     Why  should  you?     What  good  is  it? 

The  mother  enters,  with  stooped  back,  wrinkled  face, 
and  hair  turned  completely  gray.  Asya  follows  close 
behind  her. 

NINA.     There  is  Mamma. 

OLOA  PETROVNA  [listleffly].  How  do  you  do,  Sem- 
yon  Nikolayevich  ?  Thank  you  for  coming.  At  least 
you  haven't  forgotten.  [Sitting  down  on  the  top  step.] 
Nina,  she  has  forgotten  her  brother  Volodya. 

NINA  [vexed].  Oh,  Mamma!  I  have  not  forgotten 
him.  Can't  you  understand? 

OLGA  [looking  disapprovingly  at  her].  Yes,  yes; 
don't  tell  me.  You  have  forgotten,  and  that's  all. 

NINA  [excitedly].  All  right,  I'll  go  and  put  on  a 
black  dress.  I  don't  know  what  you  want  of  me. 

ASYA.     Nina ! 

NINA  [instantly  calming  herself].  But  really  —  I 
don't  know  —  Mother  has  been  after  me  that  way  the 
whole  day  long! 

She  turns  away.  The  mother  follows  her  with  the 
same  disapproving  look,  shaking  her  head. 

SEMYONOV  [to  change  the  subject].  How  is  your 
health,  Olga  Petrovna? 

OLGA.  What  health!  And  what  do  I  want  health 
for?  Volodichka  is  gone.  [She  sobs.] 

ASYA.  Mamma,  you  mustn't.  [She  sits  down  beside 
her  and  presses  up  close  to  her.] 

OLGA  [stroking  her  hair].  Here  is  Asenka;  I  have 
her  left.  Asenka  has  not  forgotten  Volodya.  So  we'll 
live  with  her.  [She  presses  Asya's  head  to  her  bosom.] 
My  poor  little  widow ! 


70  War 

There  is  silence. 

SEMYONOV.  Soon  Vladimir  Aleksandrovich  will  be 
here. 

OLGA  [crossly'].  Yes,  he'll  be  here. —  Well,  thank 
God!  But  Volodichka  will  not  be  here.  Our  Volo- 
dichka  will  never  be  here  again.  You  remember  how 
you  used  to  call  them?  Volodya  the  Big,  and  Volodya 
the  Little.  So  Volodya  the  Big  is  coming,  and  Volodya 
the  Little  is  not. 

Asya  cries. 

NINA.     Mamma,  you  are  always  exciting  her. 

OLGA.  I  am  not  exciting  her. —  Am  I  exciting  you, 
Asenka  ? 

ASYA  [trying  to  keep  back  her  tears~\.  No,  Mamma; 
don't  mind  me. 

OLGA.     Yes;  Volodya  the  Big  is  coming. 

NINA  [shrugging  her  shoulders].  You  say  it  as 
though  you  were  sorry  he  wasn't  killed. 

There  is  silence. 

OLGA.  Don't  be  angry,  Ninochka.  I  am  so  sorry  for 
Volodya. 

NINA.     Why,  Mamma,  aren't  we  all  sorry? 

OLGA.  Oh,  for  you  it's  different.  Your  husband  is 
coming  home,  and  you'll  console  yourself  with  him. 
You  are  young;  there  is  a  long  life  ahead  of  you.  But 
for  your  father  and  me  there  is  nothing  left  now  but  to 
die. 

NINA.  Am  I  not  your  daughter?  Am  I  nothing  to 
you  any  more  ? 

OLGA  [quietly,  without  listening  to  her].  They  have 
killed  Volodya  —  killed  him. 

KATYA  [appearing  at  the  door~\.  Shall  I  set  the 
table? 


War  71 

NINA  [rising  quickly].  Yes,  of  course;  it's  going  on 

three  already.  Mamma,  I'll  go  and  attend  to  every- 
thing. 

OLGA    [mechanically].  Go,  go. 

Nina  and  Katya  go  out. 

OLGA.  Ninochka  is  annoyed  with  me.  She  thinks  me 
a  nuisance. 

ASYA.  Mamma,  how  can  you  talk  like  that!  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself. 

OLGA.  Well,  it's  only  natural.  She  is  young,  and  I 
am  boring  her  sick. 

ASYA.     She  loves  you,  too. 

OLGA.  I  know  she  does.  But  no  one  will  ever  love  as 
Volodya  did. 

ASYA.     And  I,  Mamma? 

OLGA.  You  are  a  darling.  But,  after  all,  you  are  not 
my  flesh  and  blood.  You  will  forget  Volodichka,  and 
you  will  marry. 

ASYA.     I  will  never  marry. 

OLGA  [shaking  her  head].  God  knows,  God  knows, 
Asenka. 

The  chugging  of  an  automobile  and  the  tooting  of  a 
horn  are  heard  from  a  distance.  Asya  and  Semyonov  sit 
up  and  listen. 

SEMYONOV  [getting  up].  What's  that?  Is  it  they, 
already?  It's  only  a  little  after  two. 

ASYA  [almost  frightened].  I  don't  know;  the  car 
seems  to  be  coming  this  way. 

Asya  and  Semyonov  walk  down  the  steps  and  listen. 

ASYA.  It's  they.  There  is  Sidorenko. —  Nina ! 
Nina! 

She  runs  towards  the  house,  then  stops.     Sidorenko, 


72  War 

tattered,  sunburnt,  but  beaming,  pushes  through  the  gate 
tenth  the  trunk. 

SEMYONOV.     Hello,  Sidorenko! 

SIDORENKO.  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Semyonov.  [He 
puts  the  trunk  down  on  the  ground.] 

SEMYONOV.     Where  is  Vladimir  Aleksandrovich  ? 

SIDORENKO.  He  is  here.  The  machine  had  to  stop  a 
little  way  off,  it  couldn't  get  through  the  lane. 

The  Prince  rushes  in,  looking  pale  and  distracted,  fol- 
lowed by  a  Red  Cross  surgeon  and  a  soldier. 

PRINCE  [goes  up  to  Semyonov,  takes  his  arm,  and  pulls 
him  aside.  In  a  subdued  voice].  Prepare  Nina  Pe- 
trovna.  Vladimir  Aleksandrovich  is  very  severely 
wounded. 

SEMYONOV  [frightened].  What?  Severely?  Then 
why  didn't  he  — 

PRINCE  [hastily].  He  didn't  want  to  write —  [In 
a  low  voice].  Both  of  his  legs  are  torn  off. 

SEMYONOV    [recoiling] .     Impossible !  —  Asya ! 

ASYA  [who  has  heard  all  the  Prince  has  said  to  Sem- 
yonov] .  I  am  going  —  at  once,  and  —  [She  runs  into 
the  house.] 

PRINCE.  The  car  can't  drive  up  here.  We  must  get 
an  armchair  or  something. 

SEMYONOV.  Armchair?  Yes,  directly.  Here  is  one. 
[He  grabs  hold  of  the  rush-bottomed  chair.] 

PRINCE.     Take  it,  gentlemen. 

The  surgeon  and  the  soldier  quickly  carry  off  the  arm- 
chair. The  Prince  starts  after  them,  but  instantly  turns 
back. 

PRINCE.  Please  go  and  see  to  Nina  Petrovna,  and  I'll 
stay  here. 


War  73 

SEMYONOV.     All  right.     [He  runs  out.] 

OLGA  [in  alarm].  What  is  it,  Prince?  Is  Vladimir 
Aleksandrovich  very  sick? 

PRINCE.     Yes. 

OLGA  [rising  quickly].  Poor  Ninochka!  Why,  how 
is  that?  What's  the  matter  with  him? 

PRINCE.     Both  his  legs  are  torn  off. 

Olga  Petrovna  silently  crosses  herself  and  drops 
limply  on  her  seat. —  Piotr  Ivanovich  walks  in  rapidly. 
Immediately  after,  Nina  runs  by,  closely  followed  by 
Asya. 

NINA.  What  is  it,  Prince?  —  Vladimir  is  wounded? 
—  Dangerously  ?  —  Impossible !  —  Prince !  — 

PRINCE.  Steady !  Be  calm !  —  Steady,  Nina  Pe- 
trovna ! 

NINA  [running  down  into  the  garden].  Where  is  he? 
Where  am  I  to  go? 

PRINCE.     He'll  be  brought  in  soon. —  Don't  go. 

NINA.  Brought  in?  [She  stares  at  him,  horrified. 
The  Prince  lowers  his  eyes,  then  runs  to  the  gate.  A 
group  of  people  appear  at  the  gate,  carrying  Vladimir 
Aleksandrovich  in  the  armchair.  He  is  lean,  haggard, 
and  emaciated.  The  stumps  of  his  legs  are  covered  with 
a  blanket.  On  seeing  Nina,  the  men  put  the  armchair 
on  the  ground,  the  blanket  slips  off,  and  shows  the 
stumps  wrapped  up  in  white,  formless,  ugly  rags.] 

VLADIMIR   [putting  out  his  hand].     Nina!  Ninochka! 

Nina  starts  back  from  him  in  terror,  reels,  and  falls 
straight  into  the  Prince's  arms  as  he  holds  them  out  to 
catch  her. 

CURTAIN 


" BORZOI"  stands  for  the  best  in  litera- 
ture in  all  its  branches — drama  and  fiction, 
poetry  and  art.  " BORZOI"  also  stands  for 
unusually  pleasing  book-making. 

BORZOI  Books  are  good  books  and  there 
is  one  for  every  taste  worthy  of  the  name. 
A  few  are  briefly  described  on  the  next 
page.  Mr.  Knopf  will  be  glad  to  see  that 
you  are  notified  regularly  of  new  and  forth- 
coming BORZOI  Books  if  you  will  send  him 
your  name  and  address  for  that  purpose. 
He  will  also  see  that  your  local  dealer  is 
supplied. 


ADDRESS  THE  BORZOI 

220  WEST  FORTY-SECOND  STREET 

NEW  YORK 


THE  NEW  BORZOI  BOOKS 

Published  by  ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 


TALES  OF  THE  PAMPAS  By  W.  H.  Hudson,  author  of  "Green 
Mansions."  Including  what  Edward  Garnett  calls  "the  finest  short 
story  in  English."  Three-color  jacket.  $1.25 

A  DRAKE!  BY  GEORGE!  By  John  Trevena.  A  perfectly 
delightful  tale  of  Devonshire,  with  plot  and  humor  a-plenty.  $1 .50 

THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER  From  the  Russian  of  Leonid  Andreyev. 
Three  novelettes  and  some  great  short  stories  by  this  master.  $  1 .50 

JOURNALISM  VERSUS  ART  By  Max  Eastman.  A  brilliant 
and  searching  analysis  of  what  is  wrong  with  our  magazine  writing  and 
illustrations.  Many  pictures  of  unusual  interest.  $  1 .00 

MODERN  RUSSIAN  HISTORY  From  the  Russian  of  Alexander 
Kornilov.  The  only  work  in  English  that  comes  right  down  to  the 
present  day.  Two  volumes,  boxed,  per  set.  $5.00 

THE  RUSSIAN  SCHOOL  OF  PAINTING  From  the  Russian  of 
Alexandre  Benois,  with  an  introduction  by  Christian  Brinton  and  thirty- 
two  full-page  plates.  The  only  survey  in  English.  $3.00 

SUSSEX  GORSE  By  Sheila  Kaye-Smith.  A  wonderfully  vigorous 
and  powerful  novel  of  Sussex.  A  really  masterly  book.  $1 .50 

RUSSIA'S  MESSAGE  By  William  English  Walling,  with  31  illus- 
trations. A  new  and  revised  edition  of  this  most  important  work.  $2.00 

WAR  From  the  Russian  of  Michael  Artzibashef,  author  of  "Sanine." 
A  four-act  play  of  unusual  power  and  strength.  $  1 .00 

MORAL     From  the  German  of  Ludwig  Thoma.    A  three-act  comedy  , 
that  is  unlike  anything  ever  attempted  in  English.  $  1 .00 

MOLOCH  By  Beulah  Marie  Dix.  Probably  the  most  thrilling  play 
ever  written  about  war.  $  1 .00 

THE  INSPECTOR-GENERAL  From  the  Russian  of  Nicolai 
Gogol,  author  of  "Taras  Bulba."  The  first  adequate  version  in  English 
of  this  masterpiece  of  comedy.  $  1 .00 

THE  SHAVING  OF  SHAGPAT  A  handsome  holiday  edition 
of  George  Meredith's  Arabian  Entertainment.  With  fifteen  beautiful 
plates  and  an  introduction  by  George  Eliot.  Quarto.  $5.00 

All  prices  are  net. 


22O    WEST    FORTY-SECOND    STREET,    NEW   YORK 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Book  Slip-35m-7,'63(D8634s4)4280 


THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANOBLES 


L  005  432  420  7 


,,U(i  S.0.lJT.H.f.R^.EG.l0.N.AL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


College 
Library 


PG 

3 

A8vE 


